Fracture
by Zerbinetta
Summary: No one expected their fearless leader to break her leg post-battle, far away from any healers. The carefully-balanced love triangle had to crack sometime... Alistair/Surana/Zevran. Features world-wise Dog, makeover-giving Leliana and cooking Oghren.
1. Fracture

Inspired by a few fanarts and the spectacular lack of love for Zevran out there, which struck yours truly as somewhat unfair. Sure, Alistair is a wonderful character and a well-written romance, but a different viewpoint than just Lawful Good fem!Cousland seems more interesting at times. Most likely a one-shot and most likely more of these to come eventually. The PC is my elven mage, who also features in my other one-shot Seasons, though she isn't mentioned by name there. Anyone who might have problems with the pronunciation, it's Nee-moo-ay, taken from the Arthurian Lady of the Lake. Symbolism, anyone?

EDIT: Tense/spelling mistakes corrected, thanks to Athena. I was writing this quite late at night and kept switching two perspectives, so there were quite a lot of tense switches that were highly unnatural and illogical. My thanks for letting me know of that. Hopefully, it's better now.

**o.O.o**

**Fracture**

**o.O.o**

After weeks – or months already, it had to be – of scampering around all of Ferelden on a mad crusade to bring all of the country's peoples together against the actual problem (this being the Blight), one had to get used to being attacked by random creatures. Bandits, darkspawn, wild animals; there was no telling what travelers might expect on the road, even well-armed travelers with a massive mabari hound in tow. Consequently, injuries had also become a regular part of life for everyone involved in this camp-based lifestyle.

It was likely a sign of becoming a successful Grey Warden when the sight of your blood-splattered clothing didn't frighten one any longer and you could handle taking a few bumps and bruises without dropping your weapon and cursing colorfully for a few minutes. However, the line had to be drawn somewhere, and of course the Maker would choose the most inconvenient moment for such a thing out of some sense of wicked amusement. But then again, this was the deity who supposedly created the first darkspawn and then let them plague the rest of Thedas, so perhaps this sort of sadistic humor was to be anticipated.

Nimue supposed it was also partly her own fault – not that she would ever admit this out loud – for wishing to explore the ancient ruins where they had ended the werewolf curse some more. After all, who could blame her after finding the strange phylactery, the woodland spirits and the elven ghosts? Most of her life had been spent in scholarly pursuits and the chance to find out more about her race's ancestors seemed a dream come true. She had the time now before they would return to the Dalish encampment for good and they had enough supplies and firepower to deal with anything they encountered…

The thing was, though, that when one was battling undead opponents, it payed off to make certain they were fully and completely dead. Otherwise, skeletons with a clearly shattered spine might grab your ankle when you're least expecting it and reacquaint you with the very firm stone floor more than happily. A stone floor with rather sharp rubble and debris lying around on it.

The others finished matters quickly after her yelp of surprise and rather spectacular crash. When she tried to get back up, though, things proceeded far less smoothly than planned, considering the simple motion; there was a sickening grinding sound for a moment, a sharp pain. And the next thing she was on the floor again in a heap of robes, barely even registering the string of insults that was passing through her mind – as a mage, she had been taught to control her cursing, lest Templars consider it a sign of corruption. Absurd, perhaps, but considering the zealotry of some of them, one couldn't put it past them.

"Ow!" She settled for a more eloquent expression of her personal discomfort, wincing when she tried to move the leg in question. "Ow ow ow, demons and damnation!"

Post-battle cursing wasn't like her, which was the reason her current entourage realized something was amiss.

"May I?"

Out of the three of them, it was also easy to guess why Zevran would be the one to inspect the situation more closely; Morrigan cared little for the discomfort of others and the elf had quite easily spotted the blush of what he privately considered maidenly panic on Alistair's face when their fearless leader didn't hesitate to drag the embroidered fabric of her robe out of the way to reveal a most lovely but rapidly swelling leg. Such a shame that him removing articles of clothing from the mage's body (boots, in this case) was for such a mundane purpose.

"I suppo- OW!" It didn't take much medical knowledge to come to a most unfavorable conclusion.

"Broken, without a doubt." She could groan most pleasingly as well, though frustration and pain wasn't too becoming. "Can you heal it yourself?

The glare she offered in return was answer enough. The most she could do was stabilize it for a while. Fixing this would require a proficient healer, not the type of mage who preferred to make things explode and set darkspawn (and others, pun fully intended) on fire – not that those weren't extremely useful abilities in their line of work. It just wasn't too convenient right then.

"'Tis most fortunate that you choose to break your leg _after_ the battle." Morrigan finally deigned the situation worthy of her commentary, apparently, looming over them with her arms folded. It was easy to form a mask of scoffing indifference when was clear that Nimue would live, and if the witch excelled at feinting any sentiment, this would be it. "Now, you'll only slow us down considerably instead of killing us."

Being a hypocrite and aware of it, Nimue didn't enjoy when sarcastic banter was directed at her and reacted appropriately. "Morrigan, unless you've become a Spirit Healer when I wasn't looking, please refrain from making me think passing on the pain would ease my own somewhat."

"How very uncharitable of you." the witch quipped chidingly. But there was potential for amusement here, though, and it certainly wouldn't go to waste on her account. "But the situation isn't without its bright side for some, I suppose."

"There's a bright side to feeling like an ogre is tap-dancing on my leg?" their leader asked incredulously, not quite grasping the situation yet. She had at least given up on trying to stand up herself. The other pieces would soon fall into place.

Morrigan, both inwardly amused by the discomfort on various sides that will follow once the situation played itself out as it must and obviously irritated by being snapped at by a most unlikely source moved towards the exit of the chamber. "Don't just stand there; let us be off."

"But Nimue-"

"Do you require me to say it in very small words?" Of _course_ he did, because templars were useless by definition and cannot be trusted to do anything without someone giving the command word. "One of you will carry her."

Credit had to be given that Alistair didn't splutter at the very suggestion of this extent of bodily contact with the mage. "And if we get attacked on the way back, what then?" he demanded, actually somewhat reasonably. Maybe he did prefer following someone, but if that someone wasn't to his tastes, well… "We can't rely on your magic alone."

Another hypocrite right there, because if the situation of the two women was reversed, he'd be perfectly willing to trust Nimue's magic, but Morrigan could admit that infatuation of such a degree could addle a simple mind to the degree that autonomous thinking had to be banished. Just a biased fool, then.

"I can still cast spe-" Nimue's suggestion turned into a yelp that stopped Morrigan from giving Alistair her opinion on how reliable his _incomplete_ combat skills were in comparison, but there was no further noteworthy commotion, mostly because the mage was trying not to overbalance and end up back on the ground.

"Well, then, shall we get going?" Zevran remarked blithely, obviously not at all bothered by any hypothetical difficulties they might run into as long as life was good now.

Nimue had the sense not to wiggle for her own sake, but practiced her glare a little. "_What_ are you doing?"

"As our lovely witch has noted, you would slow us down considerably." Throwing indisputable truths into the face of a reasonable person was a cruel, cruel thing. It was also one of the more enjoyable ways to frustrate those who prided themselves in using honesty to maneuver their way through situations. "And if we are attacked, you must be looked after, no?"

"You're-"

"And, as Alistair is no doubt about to suggest, he _is_ the more proficient in, shall we say, blunt assault?"

This applied to both of the Grey Wardens, of course, but most of this little spiel was meant for the templar. The man was remarkably easy to guilt-trip, among other things. The lady Surana was aware that the combination of elf and mage spelled doom on a great many diplomatic efforts and thus remained appropriately cynical towards kindness.

"Besides, you don't need to have your injury pressing against heavy armor, do you now?" Not to mention that most likely the knight would prove remarkably useless in even carrying her if the degree of redness around his ears was anything to go by – obviously, even templars had imagination, however limited. "Under the circumstances, I believe the choice is rather easy."

Neither of them could argue against that.

"I'll unbalance you if I cast spells; I could try summoning a bear or some other-"

Well, not too much, anyway.

"And leave you to the mercy of a beast that could charge at everything that frightens it?" Animals, even the summoned ones, reacted instinctively, thus it was difficult even for their masters to control them when assaulted. "We cannot have that, my dear."

Nimue's left eyelid gave a small twitch, which tended to happen whenever an endearment such as this was directed at her – or, at least when he did it. Any attempts to get him to use her first name only had resulted only in suggestions of different ones, some that had made her face darken a little, others that she barely hid a laugh at.

"Very well, then." she capitulated to his logic and followed her own as well, wincing just a little when she moved her arm out of the way and around his back to better support her balance by the palm resting on his shoulder. It was helpful and most appreciated, as it removed the main obstruction to having the upper half of that peculiar corset-armor-like contraption she wore over her robes press against him quite freely. "Just… just get me to Wynne quickly."

"If you're quite finished, perhaps we could move on?" Morrigan, who had returned to the room after examining the corridor ahead of them with faint disinterest, was indeed finding her predicted amusement in Alistair's pointedly forced ignorance of the proceedings – because the choice was logical, naturally – and Nimue's stiff discomfort, which perhaps couldn't entirely be attributed to the injury, no matter how fresh. The little things in life were the pleasures that counted. "I'm certain the horde of creatures waiting for us ahead must be getting quite bored of waiting."

Thankfully, with the absence of werewolves, the ruins seemed to be peaceful now; not even the already-shattered corpses gave them any further trouble, since there were mostly only a few bones left scattered around and none had any urge to be broken again or return to life in any shape or form.

Which is not to say that the journey back to the Dalish camp was peaceful or relaxing.

Morrigan, having lost patience with all this nonsense some hours ago, determinedly stalked ahead of them all, but couldn't really be considered their surrogate leader, simply because there was no such thing. Then came Zevran and their patient, who was paler than ever from the pain she was doubtlessly trying to suppress and finally Alistair bringing up the rear in case something tried to jump them and a distraction be needed to allow the mages to gather up their spells.

Even though the templar said next to nothing most of the time – the mercy of not having Morrigan comment on things was a blessed thing – Zevran could very easily feel the human's eyes boring into him and his precious cargo almost constantly, darting between the two of them and likely speculating. It was an amusing spectacle, really, that humans (or perhaps it's just besotted templars, considering their limited experience with emotion and the outside world) consider even the slightest action of a man towards a woman a claim or (in the case of thwarted assassins, most likely) some kind of hidden scheme.

At times, he inquired if Nimue was feeling all right, to which she always politely replied that she was indeed, but there was a tightness to the words, which translated as something like: My leg is broken and I get the feeling that some of you are assuming things that will bite me in the backside later on. Of course I'm _not_ all right!

The elf smirked a little at the crown of his charge's head. With regards to the object of their (current) desires, a failed attempt at killing her and a lifetime of training as a mage-hunter might stand on a rather similar ground. Not that he believed this to be anything but a good-natured (well, maybe a little less than that) rivalry; the final decision would be up to the lady; all that could be done about that was determine what she wanted and offer her that.

Now, if only she weren't as rigid as a hare that was doing its best to pretend it was no more than a molehill while being watched by a particularly observant hawk.

"No need to be so tense, my dear." he noted finally. Were it not for the steady rhythm of her breathing – a means of calming down, clearly – and the repeating motion of her supple breasts pressing against his armor, she might even pass for a corpse entering the early stages of rigor mortis. Certainly not an appreciated sensation in one's partner when physical contact is involved.

However, there were ways around that.

"Shall we find out if you can relax with a broken leg when we get back to camp?" Fortunately, she wasn't in an entirely foul mood any longer, it seemed, because her response was flippant yet without any real menace behind it. Knowing her, though, it could still be considered a promise.

"So eager to get your hands on me?" Zevran chuckled, taking care not to knock her injured leg against tree trunks as they passed through particularly dense foliage. "You need only ask and I will gladly return the favor. I'm certain we could reach a compromise of sorts enjoyable for all."

One of the marvelous things about mages – actual magic aside, of course – was that their lives out of social conventions make it much more difficult to scandalize them in any way. He even suspected one of the reasons Nimue had allowed him to live was because these overtures amused her. Today, she offered a resigned sigh instead of a laugh, though.

"You'll not give up until I consent, will you?"

Ah, so they were at _until_ and not _unless_ now, were they?

"Not if I'm making progress, and I seem to be. You need not worry about that now." Fractured limbs were hardly productive to pleasure, after all. They limited movement, for one, and could easily break the mood. "When you consent, there will be no broken bones involved. It doesn't seem you're into that kind of thing."

The mage scoffed under her breath, blowing some hair out of her face in the process. "Well, you get points for determination, at least."

She was rewarded with another smirk. "See? Progress."

"Whatever you say." Nimue noted, but this time, she likely assured that she wouldn't be subjected to more than this unavoidable minor molestation (if it could be called that, since it wasn't as if she minded if the situation was truly out of her hands) and allowed her head to drop to his shoulder to get some sleep.

If she was to walk through hell later on, she might as well get some sleep while possible.

**o.O.o**

In retrospect, Nimue supposed she should have considered studying biology and healing much more during her apprenticeship, but it had never seemed particularly interesting to her then and now that she needed it, she had a trained healer to turn to whenever needed. Besides, if one had the time to heal injuries, chances were that the battle was already over, and her magic was often better used against enemies than for herself and her allies. There was more than one way to keep a person alive, obviously.

Wynne had set her leg quite easily, chiding only a little and lecturing on not being overhasty. She would have to rest for a few days and her muscles would feel rather stiff afterwards. Leliana had stopped by as well to help with the bandages and remark on the necessity of proper footwear – a notion that the elf had taken to heart, though perhaps not in the manner the bard had intended. She would perhaps even consider getting something more practical than mage robes to wear, since their length didn't necessarily allow speedy movement in combat; maybe something closer to what Morrigan wore, at least from the waist down.

The waist up part… well, after going through the Deep Roads, she certainly didn't want any darkspawn being too certain that she was female and, more pressingly, it certainly wouldn't have a positive effect on the attention span on about half of her companions. She had heard enough drunk and delusional propositions from Oghren to dread at what the actual ones might be (assuming, of course, that the dwarf ever forsook his beloved liquor for long enough to actually sober up), amusing as the former were. And that was just one of her current problems.

Another being…

There were hands on her shoulders, moving methodically, forcing her to straighten up from her slouch by the campfire. Once it became clear that the grip didn't have the intention of moving in the general direction of her throat and tighten considerably, she allowed herself to relax, only half-heartedly evaluating who it must be by the fact that she hadn't heard them approach, the hands weren't feminine and her personal space was being invaded without much of a care for her opinion on the matter.

Easy enough.

"Mmmmrgh." That about summed up her feelings on the matter until the movement stopped and she automatically snapped back into a straight position, lest she slump back entirely. Which was hardly a good idea. "Not that it isn't appreciated, but try to warn me first before jumping me like that."

That advice might have worked on others, but Zevran was of the opinion that once one got past the first line of defense – this being the implied threat of I'm A Mage, Don't Piss Me Off Or I'll Crush Your Skull With My Mind – there was a great deal of suppressed carefree wildness in the elven lass, which was simply waiting for the correct stimuli to get out. It had worked on other mage girls before, in his experience, if one didn't back off immediately. The remark that she was a deadly sex goddess hadn't been just a throwaway compliment; the former, she had already mastered and the latter… well, he could certainly help with perfecting that part.

"And give you time to tense up even more?" he asked merrily, settling in a spot close enough to her that would usually cause Wynne to give him her matronly version of the evil eye, as if he were trying to corrupt their messiah.

Next time, he'd have to suggest that she was more than welcome to join the fun. Right now, the whole camp was mostly in disarray, some still replenishing supplies with the Dalish, others already asleep to make certain to be awake for their watches later on.

"Unlikely."

"Tense mages can lead to explosions if one's wandering hands aren't kept in check." Nimue remarked patiently when the hands returned, the motions actually making her discard the book she was reading (somehow, she managed to make it look intentional, even though it wasn't entirely true by then).

"We'll just have to help you relax somewhat, won't we?"

By that point, however, she had gotten so used to Zevran's utter frankness about wanting to sleep with her that husky words close to her ear might have been substituted with her warhound's barking for all the reaction they provoked. But this very open attitude was something she appreciated as well; if she knew what to expect, she could be prepared for any methods used, or so she believed.

"My leg got mended an hour ago." she noted, and this was payback for being cornered by logic last time. "Even if I intended to thank you for carrying me through the forest in such a manner, it would be a rather poor repayment. Besides," The smile she shot was cheeky, because she had learned to actually enjoy this game, which was the odd crossing of the cat and mouse chase and a game where the ball is tossed from one end of the court to another. The loser was the one who failed to retaliate, of course. "I'd lose a source of amusement."

A pale eyebrow rose in response to that, rising up to the challenge. "Oh? This should be good; do explain."

"You'd lose interest in coming up with reasons why I should consent."

And she would perhaps lose some self-respect. It wasn't that she was looking for love – at the present, that could most likely end in tragedy and any man who would fall in love with a mage was a few pages short of a book in her opinion – but she considered herself a little better than to fall into bed with the first attractive man who expressed interest in her for no apparent reason. Not that she wasn't considering the matter, but playing coy was more fun at times, she was discovering.

"I never know what you'll come up with next." So far, they weren't at the stage where he'd try to claim it was fate. That was too unimaginative in any case.

"Now that isn't a very good reason to refuse, is it?"

Zevran could never quite master the whole hurt puppy eyes act that those less jaded sometimes excelled at, not that it mattered now. A clever woman and a playful minx (how nice to see that side surface as well) would see through that easily. Besides, now that they were getting closer to the heart of the matter, it didn't seem like more guilt and hurt was something she wanted. She wished for freedom and recklessness, but kept herself in check through denial and circumstances. And, if these early indicators were anything to go by, he very much doubted that a single sampling would be enough for her or that it would be anything but an enjoyable challenge to chip away all of her restraint piece by piece.

"I like to think there will always be plenty of reasons to convince you."

"Mm, tempting, but I'll pass nonetheless."

A despaired sigh, though, Zevran could affect relatively well. "Such cruelty from such a beautiful woman."

Not that he thought obvious flattery – not that she seemed anywhere close to willing to accept it as truth, because apparently most of the mages and templars were blind, stupid or insane (a combination of all these things was most likely)… or asexual (or possibly impotent) – or blatant guilt-tripping would get him a different response.

Nimue could do a theatrical sigh herself when so inclined. "And here I was about to suggest a compromise since I'm feeling generous." There were yet surprises in the world even for him.

"You have my full attention." And that was an undisputed fact. Perhaps good things would yet come to those who waited?

"Tell me about the lands you've traveled; the places you've visited." There was that glint of eagerness in her eyes, the combination of a scholar and a child. "And you can continue with what you're doing." she added in reference to the resumed presence of his hands near her shoulders.

"Now, now, that's hardly a fair compromise if only you benefit from the arrangement." he chided, though this was certainly a delightful response that could be interpreted in a number of ways. If, say, he were to move towards the bindings of the absurdly high neckline of her robes, it would still apply, from a certain point of view. There was yet time for making such a move, though.

"You're the one who so cheerfully accepted being my slave, so there you have it."

So she, too, remembered the deadly sex goddess bit? Interesting. For her benefit, he pondered the thought momentarily, mostly regarding a few creative interpretations of the very general words. "An interesting suggestion, certainly, but I have a counteroffer."

Her back tensed a little, even though she most certainly knew what was coming. She asked anyway. "That being?"

That was the cue for a redoubling of efforts, since she responded so well to a certain manner of physical contact. Growing among whores taught one the more crass side of the oldest profession, certainly, but the Antivan red light district women hadn't achieved their renown simply for being good at sex alone; the buildup to the act was just as important, if not more so, since it determined how relaxed and eager the partner was, which saved a lot of effort later on. One could have this very baiting down to an art; Zevran believed himself to be one of the fortunate few.

"That we move the massage to a place of more privacy – such as your tent, conveniently nearby as it is – where I may fulfill any wish you have more easily." He would have to be gentle with the injured leg, of course, but the first point on the agenda was to get her to enjoy such attentions before they could progress to the wilder fun. With any luck, that would be once she got back to full health.

"I promise to give the suggestion very careful consideration while you talk." Nimue responded with a content smile, but deliberately moved out of the reach of his hands the moment he paused to give her reason to say yes. Perhaps she was craftier in this game than she made herself out to be, the glint of a challenge in her eyes. "You'll never have an audience more attentive."

Resisting curious and enraptured eyes is a difficult thing, even if the reason for those emotions in them isn't ideal. Progress was progress nonetheless.

And so he span her a few tales of Antiva and Orlais and many other places that his career had taken him to before encountering her and being spectacularly derailed from that path. The mage listened carefully, and there was no mistaking the deep longing in her blue eyes when he described the people, the customs, the atmosphere of these distant lands.

Now with that look, a woman like her could spin the head of anyone in her path – and it very nearly moved even him, the sheer yearning she's unable to conceal (certainly it crossed the line once or twice when she directed it at him without even knowing it, which was both fascinating and unnerving) – but while she politely enquired about the assassinations and made surprisingly insightful comments regarding some poison effects (she knew nothing of swordplay, but her knowledge of herbs and toxins wasimpressive), her true interest rested elsewhere.

Were it not for the fact that it was very likely that the rest of their little ragtag group wouldn't come after him with no less than lethal intentions, he would consider offering to show her these places (it would be interesting to see her react to all the things she had read about in her books come to life in a decadent fashion). As things stand, what he can offer her is only a taste of these foreign lands, which he did without delay.

Unsurprisingly, she offered a smile that was almost demure in return and thanked him politely for the story, claiming to be most happy to have him along for the ride – which is mutual, of course, though she is reminded once again of the fact that she is most welcome to have him in a variety of different ways.

"I have to hold you to your promise, naturally." he warned good-naturedly, rather pleased by the lack of immediate change in her expression.

"So you do." Nimue nodded, quite aware that he wasn't berating her for wording said promise in such a manner. Interested though he might be, Zevran was overconfident to the point where she was quite certain that him pressing the issue too hard was out of the question. "And I am giving the matter a great degree of consideration."

To her own surprise, that had gone from _thank you, but I_'_m not into things likely involving daggers_ _in the back _to _most likely going for it once I manage to justify it to myself_ in not too long a time.

It was a witty but cheap shot, predictably, and both had expected her to go for it. It was part of the game, but the dance always moved a little closer to the center of the loop. As long as things remained the same, they would reach the destination eventually. The problem, of course, was that that required coaxing out the flighty, selfish and irresistible creature behind the façade of an honorable Grey Warden, and the more she came out, the less certain it became who would walk away from all this their mask still intact.

If they would walk away at all.

"Ah, once the Blight is over, I could recommend excellent ways of starting a career as a thief or con-artist." Zevran noted instead of pressing the issue, because if they are alike in anything, it's the unwillingness to be backed into a corner. And that's what everyone has been doing to her for a while now. "You've already mastered some of the necessary skills."

It's partly true, partly a backhand sort of compliment and partly baiting to which she doesn't rise.

"You didn't specify a time limit for my consideration." Nimue retorted, attempting with some care to rise to her feet. Even without her leg in its current state, her reflexes weren't spectacular, so it wasn't too surprising when she found herself being helped to her feet – not that the hands pulling her up moved an inch once that's over with.

"So tired you look, my dear. It's irresponsible to leave an injured lady on her own." he purred instead, trapping her in place. The prey's eyes widened only for an instant, as if she's only now realizing that she only has to say the word – not even that, perhaps – and this will happen. Hesitation is generally a good sign, if one remembers that things can still tip either way from the knife's edge. "Perhaps I should carry you to your tent and you can consider whatever you wish there, hmm?"

For a few seconds, Nimue seriously considered taking the plunge and doing what a great part of her wanted, the side she had learned to suppress through the years of living in a place where the slightest show of corruption can be grounds for execution or the removal of emotions and dreams. But there's no way the careful harmony in their little band can remain intact if she does, and even though she has no problem with antagonizing most people, she doesn't fancy having to face lectures about responsibility and disapproval and whatever else they – the ones who see her as a Grey Warden first – would bring up.

Having one's desires thwarted by one's own sense of responsibility deserves some degree of appeasement, though, a peace offering. Besides, she somehow still had to get out of this without offending… ah, the joys of being in charge of a very conflicting band of people.

Some of whom were now returning from the Dalish camp for the night, one might add.

"Have no worry on that account." she said at last, foregoing the idea of being unnecessarily sado-masochistic by going any further.

_Ask me again later_, she allowed her smile to say before her form melted into light and instead of her, there was a swarm of wasps where her form had stood moments ago. It's a trick of Morrigan's she's picked up, the shapeshifting. The buzzing cloud separated and flew off to the general direction of her tent, presumably to rematerialize out of sight before the others settle who should have the next watch.

It's one step closer to victory, despite the disappointment of the highly timely arrival of the rest of their little entourage, Zevran summarized with an inward chuckle when he received a few curious and mistrustful glances from those who arrived just in time to see their transform leader depart in such an extravagant fashion and simply assume a failed attempt at talking her either to death or to his bed – some of them probably aren't sure which. For them, the dance continues, one step at a time.

After all, if she didn't know the steps, she would have remembered to transform back in the ruins.


	2. Mending

As I got some inspiration for this, part 2 is getting posted, with a slightly different point of view and another take on the situation. Chronologically takes place some time after the first chapter's injury, somewhere near Denerim, because Lel knows where the best shopping is (inside joke - you'll understand soon enough). Anyway, there are some wonderful fics delving into the characters' motives and psyches out there, but I wanted to try humor this time, so please keep that in mind.

**o.O.o**

**Mending**

**o.O.o**

Love is a most frustrating condition of the heart, Alistair was discovering during these past few weeks.

Not that things had ever been easier in the matter, it's just that quite a lot has changed in a very short time. At the beginning, their entire journey had seemed thoroughly hopeless. If it had been just the two of them, perhaps things would have turned out differently, but strangely, it seemed to be for the best. The mage at his side had had a grim view of things, but a determined and stern expression on her face that had gotten them far and faded only for the moments when he made a joke or two for her benefit or simply out of habit.

Nowadays, they were all but finished with the treaties Flemeth had given them, now set on seeking out Brother Genitivi in Denerim to follow any path that might lead to the Urn of Sacred Ashes. All seemed a little easier with the promises of their allies - all indebted to Nimue - and the camp was a lot livelier, a lot warmer with the presence of others, all drawn to this quest for different reasons. It was pleasant, in a fashion, or had been before he had begun to notice that the elven mage smiled not just for him any longer.

By the time he had figured out the reason why this bothered him so much when he should have been glad to see any hint of happiness in her, there seemed to be no time for anything regarding sentiment. Or, at least, so he thought. Maybe this was because he really didn't know how to break the subject to her; exactly how did one tell a woman of a different race, born as one of those he had almost been trained to potentially slay and a companion of scarcely a few months that, insanely, they're glad for the End Of The World As Mankind Knows It because it had led him to her?

"Listen, kid, I'll help you if it gets ya to stop moping 'round so much."

How exactly he had ended up sitting close enough to Oghren (which wasn't an unreasonable distance, mind you) for the dwarf to take notice on his doubtlessly brooding expression was a mystery, but Alistair supposed that, given enough sarcasm, the berserker would retreat back to his booze. Now he simply had to determine whether avoiding the projectile-vomiting would be necessary.

"Um, while I appreciate the sentiment, I don't really think any advice you can offer would be inapplicable to my situation." The templar still vividly remembered the day at the Spoiled Princess when Oghren had demonstrated his 'charm' and 'effect on women' for all of them to see. Needless to say, one didn't know whether to laugh or cry about the fact that this seemed to actually work for him.

The dwarf snorted after taking another more than generous gulp of his brew. "See? That's why you keep whining like that. You're overthinking stuff. Women don't go for idiots who keep fawning all over them. The trick is showing her your stuff."

Now there was a memory even more vivid. No one could say Oghren was a prude.

"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that."

"I mean as a warrior, boy. Though now that you mention it, that might work too." the dwarf admitted with what in anyone else this drunk would be considered a giggle. "'Course, that doesn't seem to be having much of an effect on her, now that I think about it. Or did it?" Oghren squinted a little, but without any obvious effect. "I'd need some more beer to jog my memory."

"How about you go get that beer, while I slowly sneak away and try to forget this conversation ever happened?"

"Suit yourself. Damn, you're almost making me sorry for the boss. No wonder the elf's after her if you wimp out like this. By the time you'd get her out of those robes, she'd be a nutcase."

Getting this kind of talk about a woman he was mostly certain he loved from a highly intoxicated dwarf was possibly the newest low in his life. Perhaps even worse than the time when Oghren - more drunk than usual, if that was possible - had not so subtly insinuated that he (Alistair, not Oghren, because that thought was just cringe-worthy) and Nimue were sleeping together with the use of some highly unusual comparisons, most of them filthier than anything the darkspawn might create... with Nimue just a few paces in front of them, flanked by a highly amused Leliana.

"I really don't want to hear the rest of your undoubtedly well-rehearsed metaphor." The time for a swift strategic retreat was coming and the time was now. "Besides, Nimue isn't one to be impressed by how many heads you can crack."

"True, she can do better than you on a good day." Oghren admitted, knowing something about cracking a head or two himself. "Tough break, you picked a difficult one. Bet she's a monster on other battlefields as well, though." That was much too thoughtful and entirely too disturbing, winks included.

This time, though, the Maker showed his mercy in the small but predictable way the whole conversation ended; with the dwarf passing out after another swing from a different flask right at hand.

If there was any point to this truly dreadful conversation, it was that just circling the issue wasn't doing anyone – least of all him – any good. Not that he had never imagined what it might be like – gah! Too much exposure to Oghren in a small temporal frame was obviously as harmful to one's thought process as Nimue's proximity, though in thoroughly different ways.

No, the time for stalling was past (hopefully). Of course, with Nimue having gone into Denerim with her dog, Leliana and Morrigan, of all people – the former to lead the shopping expedition while making them appear like an ordinary group of young women to better con the merchants, the latter to keep the former's shoe obsession in check and scare away any potential troublemakers – there was still time to spare and preparations that could be done. And what better preparation was there than some information gathering, however slight?

In that case, the person to go to was obvious.

"Wynne, can I ask you something?"

The elderly enchantress had been reading one of the books Nimue had managed to salvage during their travels through various parts of Ferelden before looking up from her carefully-marked page. This was a look she knew all too well and knew exactly how to respond to the unasked question, asked in a child's voice in a mind's eye. Or would that be a mind's ear? In any case, that was unimportant. She had drawn the line at the horrible socks that ended up slithering all around camp.

"If this is about more clothes needing mending, you can turn around and go back where you came from right now." she said, her tone allowing no room for discussion. "I swear, I don't know how you manage to shred everything so fast."

This uncertain posture and shift of weight from one side to another was also something she was familiar with from the days when apprentices had kept forgetting doing their homework and had to admit to their own mistakes.

"No, it's not about that - not this time, anyway. It's..." A deep breath right in the place where Wynne would have expected it. "Well, it's about Nimue, actually."

"Ah." Odd, how a single noncommittal syllable could encompass one's entire thoughts on a matter so broad and complex. "That was my second guess."

Closing her book after making certain she remembered where she had stopped, Wynne encouraged the young templar to sit down and tell her whatever he wished, though she could easily fill in the gaps herself, what with the doe eyes he kept giving the young mage, how concerned he had been when she had been setting Nimue's leg back in place and how grim and miserable he had appeared when he hadn't been the one to carry her all the way to the camp.

"She lived in the mage tower all her life, right? And you lived there too." A nod, then another. "So you must know her quite well."

Wynne gave a small chuckle. Of course outsiders had to imagine that each mage knew every other, locked together as they were. "I'm hardly omniscient, Alistair; there were always many apprentices around, far too many to keep track of. Besides, I haven't always remained there." she pointed out, not unkindly. Irving hadn't been wrong when he had said that she was never one to remain with the Circle when adventure called.

"But you know her better than anyone else here." The childlike insistence, the faith that the information he sought was at hand, these were endearing traits, though Wynne wasn't certain that they would endear the knight to his chosen lady's heart in the matter he so obviously wished.

"If this is an attempt to ask me what her favorite color or flower is, you're out of luck." The flower, she had little idea or interest in, but if she was to judge from the manner of her dress, then Nimue was fond of darker colors instead of the garish shades the Circle clad its mages in. "I would think you'd like to ask her about her past yourself; she did the same without problems, as I seem to recall."

"She jumped a little when I told her I used to be a templar." It had been long ago, yes, but something in her had become alert of him the moment he had mentioned that, despite her insistence that it was merely habit later. "I thought I'd ask you first, so that I don't stumble into some sensitive topic." After all, from what he had seen at the tower, Nimue didn't have the best of histories with templars in general.

"That's very considerate of you." Wynne noted, the crow's feet around her eyes deepening just a little when she smiled. "But Nimue seems to like you well enough to tell you herself, should you ask."

"Really?" The signs that Alistair was indeed the late Cailan's brother were becoming indisputable, considering the puppy-like way he perked up at this snippet of what Wynne had always considered an obvious fact. "She said that?

"She didn't have to. Whatever predisposition she might have had, it's been overcome." Nimue treated everyone with a degree of friendship, but she certainly seemed to have a special amount of affection for Alistair. The elderly mage wasn't entirely certain whether it was because of a deeper emotion on her part or simply the comforting fact that she wasn't the last Grey Warden in Ferelden. She was willing to believe that it was both.

"She's been..." A glance down, not entirely shamed, but certainly unhappy. "Well, a little busy lately, that's all."

He didn't need to say anything more; a commotion further in the camp signified that the person in question had returned with her entourage and some fresh supplies. One didn't have to be a genius to guess who was the first to attempt to relieve Nimue of whatever she was carrying, her cloak included, especially since Alistair himself wasn't nearby to step in.

"I think I understand. I share your concern, but Nimue makes her own choices. Whether or not they're correct, they have been made." Wynne was still distrustful of parts of their entourage, but even among the rest of the misfits, Morrigan and Zevran certainly stood out as the most obvious suspects. Neither was willing to discuss their individual reasons for staying or continued cooperation and they each had their individual means of deflecting questions – biting contempt in the case of the former, shallow yet constant flirting in the latter case.

In many things, they were polar opposites. If there was anything they most certainly shared, though, it was the keen interest both had in Nimue.

"It's just that she seems to be putting a great deal of faith into someone who tried to kill her not too long ago." Alistair muttered, trying not to watch the mage scurry around with sacks and boxes too obviously. Which was kind of hard, considering how close Wynne was.

"Well, it's good that she has someone to protect her so valiantly, then."

Predictably, the Grey Warden's face reddened and he completely missed the gentle teasing in Wynne's voice. "It's not that! I mean, she's what's keeping us all together and if she was gone, then... then everyone would expect me to know what to do and I really, _really_ don't fancy being the last Grey Warden around and leading people against the Blight."

Considering the current – rather steady – state of things, one could only hope that it wouldn't come to pass. While a good lad, Alistair wasn't yet leadership material. Besides, Wynne had certain doubts as to whether everyone would consent to follow him as easily as they had accepted Nimue.

However, whatever reassurance she intended to give wouldn't have fallen on fertile ground when she opened her mouth to speak and closed it an instant later; Nimue had discarded the heavy cloak to allow for more dexterity while sorting out supplies… and apparently, Leliana had made good on her promise to make her go shopping for shoes. Only they hadn't stopped at shoes. The robes she now wore were closer to Tevinter in design, which actually said more than enough.

Wynne wisely decided to return to her book before Alistair managed to regain the power of speech and run off mildly embarrassed by her knowing smile. Later on, though, he made it his business to confront the newly revealed Ultimate Evil; this being Leliana.

"You picked _that_ as functional armor for her." Now he knew why all Circle mages wore those high-collared ankle-length robes. Because they might unintentionally break the templars' brains otherwise.

Repeating the statement several times was enough for the bard to understand what was actually going on while she kept tuning her lute with an air of impish casualness.

"It isn't supposed to be armor, Alistair." she explained patiently, already an expert on the matter. They had tried armor and Nimue had said straight away that she would end up splattered in combat with such weight on her. "It's a mage's robe and the proprietor mentioned all sorts of effects it can have on the wearer, all of them highly useful. I actually thought you'd rather like it." The mischievous glint in her eyes surfaced strongly enough for even Alistair to partly notice it. "Or maybe you do already, no?"

The length of the robe allowed for swifter movement without the risk of tripping over heavy fabric, but the smooth leggings ending above her knee and the mere strap of fabric that created a skirt-like effect might cause others to walk into walls.

And the stockings... dear Maker, this was how male teenage mages had to feel when surrounded by groups of desire demons.

"But it doesn't offer protection from stray arrows and leaves her... her..." And, naturally, the bodice seemed to have been made to accentuate everything that screamed that she was a woman, from her slender throat to the more obvious feminine features a little lower. "It leaves her exposed to enemy fire!

Leliana grinned openly, quite certain what this kind of stammer meant in a man. "Ah, you _do _like it! Should I go tell Nimue that it has your approval?"

It might be a sign of lust, but the pink tinge Alistair's cheeks gained at the very idea crossed the absence of a different sentiment out. Gathering all his composure, the templar swallowed and looked straight at her with a very forced defiance that made it obvious that the statement would waver if he were to look anywhere near Nimue.

"I was completely wrong about you, Leliana. You _are_ entirely insane, in the worst possible manner. I think I actually preferred the Princess Stabbity version I imagined to this!"

"The truth is the last thing anyone wants to admit, I realize. I think the color really suits her, though; it brings out her eyes." she mused mercilessly, lost in thought for a moment. Pale blue was rather fetching with a combination of fair hair and a pale complexion, no doubt earned through years of being locked inside a sunless tower. "I couldn't get her to buy extra pairs of shoes with it, unfortunately. Maybe I can get her to promise to go properly shopping once the Blight is over. At least a simple dress, blue with silver and golden flowers. I can just about imagine it now..."

"I'm sure she'll thank you for that idea." He shouldn't have spoken, since breaking Leliana's train of shopping-engaged thought meant that she could return her full attention to the matter of his apparent mesmerized state, which she was quick to point out. "You're an evil mastermind, I see that now. Next thing you know you'll confess to being the archdemon in disguise."

"Well, _someone_ seems to be thankful for the new attire, at least." the bard noted, glancing over to the spot where Nimue was mixing some spare health poultices.

The mage was sitting cross-legged with a pile of flasks and ingredients, a small knife in her hand, cutting the elfroots with rather uncanny precision. What Leliana was referring to, though, wasn't this – a common occurrence nowadays, since there was always a need for healing salves – but rather the fact that Zevran had appeared almost out of nowhere and struck up a conversation with their leader. Nimue's back was turned to them, so it wasn't entirely obvious what was being said or how she was reacting to what was likely the newest attempt at seduction, but judging by the fact that the assassin didn't move from the spot at her side for some time and remained smiling in a way that was mildly shark-like...

"Ooh, that's a grim look." Leliana noted when she returned her attention to the now-gloomy templar. Angst wasn't the easiest of emotions to deal with, especially if this was indeed first love for Alistair, as she supposed. "If you want her to notice your feelings, you have to do something about it."

There was no need to tell Alistair, of all people, but the bard actually had her own reasons for approving of the developing relationship between their leader and her would-be assassin; it seemed that, for some reason, whenever targeting Nimue was an option, Zevran focused all of his efforts on her alone and temporarily ignored her and the other women of their little group. Which was most pleasant, since Leliana wasn't interested, minimal physical attraction aside. Besides, one could only wonder how long Morrigan would hold out until she put a stop to being baited through drastic measures.

Not that Alistair wasn't a friend who deserved happiness. It was just a little more convenient for her if things remained this way.

"I refuse to speak with you any further." said friend proclaimed grumpily. "You'll just twist everything I say around to fit your own wicked plans."

Leliana shrugged. "As you wish. You know, I actually intended to talk to Nimue about this and try to needle some information out of her, but I guess you wouldn't be interested in hearing what I know so far."

"I'm not listening to you." Alistair insisted adamantly. And this resistance lasted for a valiant ten seconds, in total. "So, what does she see in a man like Zevran, exactly?" he asked then, attempting to sound casual. He hadn't supposed that Nimue would actually discuss these things with someone, but Leliana was a likely candidate, being close to her age, female – they had established that much – and a generally sweet person.

Hook, line and sinker.

"Well, they're both elves, for one thing. I suppose it's easier to form a connection with someone of your race, especially when traveling with a band mostly consisting of humans." This was a possible factor, but considering the fact that the Circle treated both elves and humans equally, Leliana had a different theory. "But I've given this a bit of thought and I think I've figured it out."

"Well?"

A mahogany eyebrow rose in mock surprise. "Suddenly you're interested? Or are you just trying not to determine whether her leg is fully healed or not? You can see relatively well from this angle...

"Just... just answer the question!" There was no escaping the trap now, which Alistair realized only after it had firmly closed around him. "You can't leave a thought hanging like that."

"Hah." Leliana smiled, but continued. "What I mean is, Nimue has lived in a single sealed-off tower for most of her life, yes? The only world she knows is now gone and she is free to see what is beyond the walls she had come to accept. I find it very natural that she would find someone as widely-traveled as Zevran interesting. That's what they mostly talk about, actually." she added as evidence and out of kindness, to satisfy part of the curiosity around her. "From what I understand, it takes some effort, but Nimue has been steadily prying stories out of him."

Alistair blinked, apparently highly surprised by this. "Really? I mean, that seems a bit odd, considering that no one else has had much luck in determining his actual motives."

"And no one was as determined to outlast any possible innuendo that could be thrown at them. It apparently takes quite a lot of focus and energy. Sometimes I wonder where she gets the patience." Leliana herself had given up on trying and chose instead to simply observe, which was proving to be rather more productive than her previous strategy.

"So she's only interested in knowing more about the world?"

"That's one way to put it." Leliana admitted, but clarified nothing.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" It wasn't really a question, but if it were, the answer would most certainly be frustrating.

Once more, the bard looked up from her music, her eyes kind now. "So you really care about her that much?" Even that wasn't a question entirely, especially when the answer was obvious. "You should tell her. I mean that, Alistair." she emphasized before he could wheedle his way out of this. "She was about as sheltered as you in matters of affection, so she will be utterly blind to it unless she's presented with it openly. And if you wait, you might miss your chance. Because I very much doubt Zevran will." she added, just in time to accentuate this point by witnessing the aforementioned assassin pull their mage-leader to her feet in a surprising feat of politeness and take her a bit further away from the camp for a rather surprising purpose.

Not the obvious one, which was the most surprising thing, even though it might have been clear simply thanks to the obvious fact that Nimue was hardly an exhibitionist.

It all started in the middle of the conversation happening on the other side of the camp. After finishing sorting out all their supplies and selling some stuff to Bodahn in exchange for different ingredients that simply weren't available in Denerim, Nimue, the apothecary part of their healing team, had proceeded to go about her usual business of converting raw ingredients into healing potions. As noted before, biology as in healing through magic had never appealed to her, but chemistry and the effects of various ingredients mixed together was a different story. Wynne usually helped her with the more complex concoctions, but after this amount of time on the road, she could have likely mixed these simple potions with her eyes closed.

That didn't mean she wasn't thorough or precise with the process. It was the one time when she actually got to use a blade, small yet sharp as it was, and it was the one physical weapon with which she was greatly proficient, partly due to the few early years spent living in an Alienage, partly because of her own fondness for thoroughness.

Thus interruptions mid-brewing weren't exactly welcome, even if she had mostly finished by then. However, she knew that it was no reason to panic that the archdemon was coming, because it was only Zevran with the usual carefree smirk and, judging by these indicators, this conversation was going to involve a comment or two (at the very, very least) about her new attire.

Damned fibula fractures. Damned Leliana and her precise reasoning. She should have guessed that the bard had had some ulterior motive beyond empty compliments when noting that this would be useful and practical and look good.

"This is most certainly a pleasant change." True enough, the familiar feeling of having every inch of her skin scanned thoroughly passed through her even before she looked up from her work. The most unnerving thing about having an assassin intent on bedding you wasn't the whole he-might-be-planning-to-kill-me thing, but the very, very intense stares. Nimue doubted that this could be attributed to mere hormones on her part. "Odd though she might be, Leliana does have excellent taste."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled to have your approval." she noted with an attempt at a carefree smile, but wasn't allowed to return to her work just yet.

"The thrill is all mine, I'm sure. I see she even managed to convince you to invest in jewelry." The pendant around her neck was no longer the one filled with darkspawn blood, but one bearing a stronger enchantment and certainly much finer crafted. Then again, the surroundings it was being displayed with would have made even a plain bit of metal look appealing, most likely.

"Is there something in particular you want or are you here simply to inspect my neckline?"

"Oh, I do want something, most certainly, and it even involves your neckline... and having those fetching robes discarded in favor of better appreciating it later on."

It was no longer as easy to show nothing but disinterest and maybe a hint of playfulness; perhaps their quest was wearing down on her or, more likely, she felt more exposed in this Leliana-imposed fashion change. Both were equally true answers.

"Do be serious." she asked instead, putting away her knife for the time being, lest she cut her fingers off by accident.

"Such matters are hardly subjects for jokes, dear Nimue." Strange that she would be embarrassed by her own physical appeal… then again, mages were hardly taught to use their appearance to get what they wanted through persuasion. Zevran wouldn't be surprised if that was a little easier for her from now on, assuming she kept these clothes. He would have to make certain the previous ones stayed well out of her reach and that of Wynne. "But there will be time to discuss that when you're finished here. What I intended to suggest was that I've noticed that you have a rather steady hand with that knife you're using. Perhaps you would care to learn how to use it for defense purposes as well."

Nimue blinked a lot when surprised, but she couldn't blink away the slightest pink tinge that remained around her cheekbones. "Magic is my strength and even if I did learn something, there are others more proficient with blades here that would be quicker to react than me."

"That might be true, but it's safer to rely on yourself only in case your magic fails or becomes depleted." The staff she carried wasn't effective on a short range and it never hurt to be prepared. Not that saying as much wouldn't be hypocrisy on his part, seeing that she was the one who had caught him – or rather made him – unprepared. "As a precaution."

The mage raised her eyebrows, her composure regained entirely, along with her natural quick thinking. "Since when are you so forthcoming with help?" she asked, fixing him with an attempt at a penetrating stare.

"Well, learning this would doubtless require a, shall we say, hands-on approach?" Faint, but there, that blush, even as Nimue rolled her eyes good-naturedly, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "It is best to learn that way when there is little time to spare."

She didn't buy the rather well-acted voice of How Dare You Accuse Me Of Plotting, I'm Deeply Hurt Now. "You want something in return." She wasn't asking.

Zevran flashed her a grin. "So suspicious."

Rightfully so, in her opinion. "No, merely cautious. I thought that's what you wanted me to become. Cautious."

"And eloquent as well. A sharp tongue so wonderfully trained; one wonders just what else you could do with it." Finally, her mask of coldness cracked entirely and Nimue buried her face in her hands to stiffen her relatively silent laughter. It wasn't meant to be flirty or mocking; simply an expression of amusement. A shame she tried to hide it so. "Indulge me, if you will. You need a little rest from all the stressful shopping. An hour of frowning at all that elfroot can hardly be a good sign."

"True." Nimue admitted, her spirits lifted. Momentarily, she actually forgot about her own question, this being the matter of payback. "You want to teach me now?"

"No time like the present, wouldn't you say?" Zevran's voice was jovial as he pulled her up to her feet and almost dragged her off to an emptier space than the crowded camp. "First we must determine the extent of the damage."

The only person who remained carefully observing the situation was Leliana, even after the others take notice but lose track once it becomes clear that nothing too scandalizing was happening and therefore there was no need to intervene. The whole 'lesson' didn't take too long, since, naturally enough, all that's necessary to teach the mage is how to swiftly draw the knife and use it for one precise blow – the only chance she's likely to get, if an enemy gets this close to her without being blasted apart by her magic. As for the 'hands-on' approach, Nimue chose to bite her tongue for once and bear it, or so she believed the situation to be.

The matter of repayment was repeated to her only afterwards and she folded her arms knowingly, as if to say she had been expecting exactly this. Almost everyone was asleep at that point, including Alistair, who would have been the likeliest reason for refusing even considering whatever would be suggested to her.

"There is something I have wanted for a while now." A something which had promised to give the matter due consideration. The carefully neutral expression he received in return was almost worth a good laugh in itself. "Come, now, there is no need to appear so grim. If you are not of a mind, it is no tragedy, but to waste such beauty on merely fighting and travelling is surely a crime."

Nimue didn't bother asking if he was actually serious, because she had confirmed that theory when she had first asked. Initially, she had hoped to receive this matter of comfort from someone else – and her self of a few years past would have no doubt been astonished and laughed herself to tears at the thought of caring for a templar – but she understood well enough that if she were to give her love (if she was capable of it, even) to Alistair and one of them survived, that person would be utterly broken by the ordeal.

Better to be a coward and not risk such wounds. Better to think of the heartbreak she would no doubt experience if they both survive and he takes up the human throne in Ferelden – each unlikelier than the former, but still possibilities.

Better to seek warmth and the illusion of love and belonging with someone who wouldn't so easily be broken by loss, who understood her way of thinking and could forgive her for having weaknesses and feelings that made her a person.

She had wasted enough opportunities to make her own happiness, as she had told the sloth demon in the Fade. And, whatever Wynne might say, she had a right to be selfish, like everyone else.

"Then why are we still talking?" she asked with a little more bravado than she believed herself to be feeling, much to the assassin's obvious surprise – something she would remember with glee later on.

And then, with a single kiss, the world fell down.


	3. Shell

Despite a busy schedule, I took the time to write the third chapter, which involves some flashbacks. This is getting posted as a separate story as well, since it can be considered a standalone fic. Otherwise, this is the third chapter of Fracture, after the eponymous first one and Mending, chapter 2.

**o.O.o**

**Shell**

**o.O.o**

In retrospect, it had all begun with a failed assassination attempt; certainly not the best start for any kind of long-term relationship.

"I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors, yes?"

Leliana raised her eyebrows, a little taken aback despite her years of moving around Orlesian nobles. Even there, where ladies could sometimes go for their potential assassins – against all odds and common sense – such words would be considered brazen when the assassin in question was on the ground in front of a victorious group of adventurers. Next to her, Alistair obviously tensed (she could tell even without looking at him! How easy) and the general attention shifted to their mage-leader, who, inexplicably enough for a sheltered Circle mage, gave a somewhat cool smile.

"I already have a loyal bed-warmer, and he doesn't share."

Said bed-warmer turned out to be the massive mabari hound at her side, who jumped to action without hesitation. However, the split-second before this confusion was cleared up, the templar at her side obviously wondered – with fright, embarrassment and something else which she pinpointed later on – if she was talking about him was something she wasn't soon going to forget.

"Ah." The assassin summarized with just the briefest twitch of a grimace. Morrigan had a relatively good idea what scenario he was likely picturing and hoped just a little bit that Alistair would realize this (not that there was much chance of that) for amusement's sake. "What a shame. I will simply have to redouble my efforts."

"I do hope you aren't considering this unnecessary mercy you are fond of, Nimue." the witch said instead, finding another good way to push some buttons without seeming overly obvious. "T'would be foolhardy to let him go."

"Surely you cannot be suggesting slaying a defenseless opponent, Morrigan?" Leliana asked, not so scandalized by the notion anymore, though still appalled by it.

The witch barely resisted rolling her eyes. "Do not be surprised when your naïve belief in allowing people who tried to kill you live one day stabs you in the back."

"Having two such dazzling beauties fight over me so early in the day… surely this is a sign that my luck is turning."

Even Leliana's eyes hardened by a fraction when aimed at the assassin, but it was Morrigan who glared hardest. "I would also suggest cutting out his tongue and making him eat it while you decide." she added to Nimue, her face suggesting that she was already thinking up several ways to achieve that end.

Surprisingly, she was rewarded with a mischievous grin.

"Ruthless and alluring. What a deliciously tempting combination."

What was alarming, though, was the slightest change in Nimue's expression; Alistair had learned to recognize it. He himself had often seen the moment when a jest or situation broke through the carefully-constructed barriers intended to protect her from the outside world (very much foreign to her) and to make her seem more confident than she actually was (and, considering that she had been fascinated with the concept of money when they found some, this wasn't insignificant). At a few fortunate instances, he was the one who managed to break this shield – the fact that it had emerged after Ostagar and not before helped – and so seeing her eyes almost smile was Entirely Surprising and most certainly Not Good At All when it was directed at someone such as this… man.

"We should get moving, Nimue." he suggested quietly, caressing the name somewhat. Morrigan was no doubt going to taunt him about his male ego being threatened by seeing Nimue react in any positive manner to a man other than him, but it was worth Getting Out of Here, now. At least there was a pretext for it. "Redcliffe won't remain safe for very long if we don't bring the mages."

But she isn't listening, not the way she normally would, the possibilities circling in her mind. Normally, she asked for opinions and tried to compromise a solution that was to everyone's liking.

"Now, now, it's impolite to interrupt while the lady is deciding." Alistair most definitely didn't like the way the elf tsked at him. Scratch that, he didn't like the elf, period.

The Like-Dislike meter hit the bottom when Nimue's magic burned through the rope binding their hostage.

"I believe in second chances."she said, her voice firm. There would be no further chance, that tone implied. Still, the moment when Irving had expressed his disappointment in her for helping Jowan and the instant when she knew the templars were going to judge her flashed before her eyes.

"What?! You're taking the assassin with us now?!"

And perhaps it was indeed illogical and foolish, but, in her mind at the time, still distrustful of the world, the presence of an assassin was relatively on the same fear-factor level as that of a templar. If she had learned to accept – and like – the latter, others could learn to deal with the former, assuming she wasn't being too trusting and naïve.

"Killing him serves no purpose and letting him go is out of the question." she reasoned instead, glancing at the distrustful Alistair. That they couldn't be picky in the face of annihilation and look a gift assassin (hah) in the mouth was something that went unsaid. "If you wish him dead, you are free to do so yourself."

Alistair almost reconsidered his reluctant acceptance of this fact when the assassin stood far too close to Nimue and held the hand that had pulled him up much longer than necessary. The question of whether or not he would have reconsidered if he had known what was to happen was something he would come to prefer not to think about.

**o.O.o**

"_Then why are we still talking?" And there is no teasing behind the words, no fending off the question she doesn't yet want to answer, no later or maybe or perhaps but yes, now, I do, I want, I will._

_Whichever it is doesn't really matter. Any is valid enough a reason for his lips to twist into the slightly too wide smile, filled with many promises, none which someone who wishes for a life of peace or normalcy would look forward to. But she isn't normal or peaceful, not any longer, never was, perhaps. _

_His hands claim whichever part of the welcoming body in front of him is closest, moving along the tastefully cut fabric (meaning to his tastes), already plotting how to discard it, delving into the fragrant mass of her hair (this he knows, because he's often been close to her to confirm it – but not close enough, every sense is screaming now). _

"_Now that, my dear, is a most valid question."_

_And she is his entirely for a few instants as they kiss__ and kiss and kiss as the world of right and wrong comes crashing down around them… _

**o.O.o**

Very little changed on the whole. Nimue preferred it that way; this had been one of the reasons for her ultimate decision. There was no need to worry about what might be if something happened, what the outcome would be and how someone would react to it. And, most importantly, as long as she refused to allow deep affection - love, even – to enter the picture, she could remain unbiased and focused on their tasks. Love was the emotion she really didn't understand, because she had never felt it towards anyone but her mother, and that was now just a word towards which the feeling had connection. Even when Jowan had proclaimed his love for Lily, she hadn't understood it, not truly.

It was much too irrational not to lead to bad decisions. But still she had helped the two of them, leading to this situation. In a way, that actually supported her own argument.

Still, there was another side to things. She was more relaxed than before, having grown used to the outside world now… and, with an effective outlet of any primal urges and frustrations she might have, the odd feelings she sometimes had around Alistair were beginning to subside somewhat. For that, she was glad, despite this being a slow process.

"Perhaps you have a little more sense than I thought, if you indeed find those venom extracts so amusing."

Morrigan was approaching, quiet as a cat in the wilderness, her face impassive but with the ever-present hint of a sneer. This wasn't an entirely unsurprising development, considering that the swamp witch believed most of their entourage to be fools far below her notice, but she usually had a valid reason for speaking even to Nimue. The elf only glanced up before returning to her potion-making. Nothing she could say would drive Morrigan off before she made her point, so she might as well make conversation.

"Yes, poison always cheers me up." she said brightly, squinting a little when a little steam came from the ingredients she added to the small pot over a controlled magical fire. "To what do I owe being graced with your presence? I thought you were busy studying the grimoire."

The witch ignored that remark, sitting down opposite Nimue with a studious expression. "'Tis somewhat irritating watching you smile so all the time, so I decided to tell you about it." she noted with a shrug. The elf blinked. She hadn't been aware of smiling very visibly, but then again, her good mood had to manifest itself somehow. It was a bit embarrassing, since others might draw conclusions. If they hadn't already. "In any case, you are the rare kind of person offering intelligent conversation among this band of idiots you seem to have an affinity for. I truly understand little as to why you put up with such nonsense, but I suppose having pawns to sacrifice is a useful thing in your line of work."

That was such a Morrigan thing to say; it was one of the things Nimue had become used to over the passing months, such as Oghren's drunken propositioning or Alistair's goofy jokes. But it was also an empty phrase.

"You didn't come over here just to point that out, I believe."

Thin lips curled wryly. "Indeed not, for you know that already. I want to ask what you hope to achieve by this… fraternization, shall we call it?" Morrigan settled for a politer word than she was likely thinking, which was a sign of friendship from her. "I don't really think you naïve enough to believe that simply sleeping with your would-be assassin would secure his loyalties." Now there was the bluntness tempered by years of living alone with a mother who was an ancient abomination with a penchant for cryptic hints. Nimue looked up, her eyes a little wide. Here she had thought this dalliance wasn't entirely obvious. "Were he an imbecile like Alistair, then maybe, but he's a different kind of idiot." the witch continued.

"Why are you so quick to pin it down as some sort of plot?" the elf said after a moment, tilting her head in interest. Maybe Morrigan was giving her a bit too much credit, which wasn't entirely good, because then she would have to live up to these expectations. "I'm – well, not only human, as the saying goes, but I'm a person with feelings and needs too."

"Aaah, now that is a different perspective." Morrigan's unnaturally-colored eyes seemed to glitter when she was satisfied with something. "The trapped bird has flown out of its cage at long last and isn't shrinking away from the world. An interesting way to break ties with the past… and I imagine you've had enough of templars pining after you for a while."

Cullen, caged and desperate, calling her an illusion. Admitting the infatuation she had mistakenly considered something frivolous. Apparently, she wasn't the only one who sometimes thought she saw a reflection of a past before this in Alistair.

"Why the sudden concern?" Nimue decided to change the angle of the discussion for her own benefit. "I thought you weren't interested."

Morrigan gave her the second best from her arsenal of flat looks, but the elf knew better than to totally buy it. She still remembered the moment when Zevran had managed to win a secret bet with Alistair about managing to make the witch crack under his flattery.

"You are taking quite a considerable risk… and it is within my interest to assure that you remain alive." Morrigan noted carefully. She didn't mention the reasons for the interest or any kinship she might feel towards the mage. Right now, she intended to confront foolishness. "The Blight might win otherwise, because I would be forced to slay the single remaining Grey Warden in Ferelden, were you to die. Though perhaps this revelation will serve to at least silence him." she mused, intrigued by the idea for a moment.

"I don't under-"

Of _course_ she didn't, blind to clumsy flirtations as she was.

"The dim-witted fool is in love with you." To her credit, Nimue didn't appear startled by the statement of Morrigan's flat tone. "I very much doubt that you didn't suspect that, at the very least. Subtlety is a foreign word for him, along with many others. And he will find out, even if you choose not to tell him." Though of course it was entirely plausible that he knew, but was choosing to ignore reality in favor of a delusion that late night visits to Nimue's tent involved tea and cookies. Not that unlikely, considering how sainted the other Warden was in Alistair's eyes. "T'would be more merciful, perhaps, to be blunt with him. Lest he torment us all with another round of brooding silence."

Nimue knew well that any attempt to convince the witch to be nicer to Alistair or spare him any measure of taunts would be quite futile. "I'll tell him." she said instead. The problem was, she didn't really know how.

"Sooner would be better than later, I think." Morrigan appeared satisfied nonetheless. "T'will be somewhat awkward for you, should Alistair suppose that you are being attacked in the night and burst in to protect you."

The elf had the decency to flush. Morrigan idly wondered if it was because of actual embarrassment or the realization that Zevran would likely not mind one bit. "Yes, that's… that's a good point."

**o.O.o**

There were few things in the world that – in Zevran's opinion, at least – surpassed waking up next to a beautiful woman. Lying awake with one that was most fortuitously devoid of clothing certainly qualified. Finding out from an off-hand comment that the aforementioned woman had been chaste up to less than a day ago was perhaps one of the best examples, especially considering the rather interesting past hour or so. Apparently, either the Circle had a _very _extensive library or Wynne had been lying about the lack of moonlight sessions atop the tower.

Both was probable, most likely. Surprising even herself, Nimue wasn't hurt or offended by her lover's later proclamation that them ending up in bed together had been inevitable from the very first moment. Now that she was familiar with the notion and understood why some people chose to practice it regularly – she wouldn't admit it if she could get away with it, but Zevran hadn't been purely boasting when trying to convince her that she wouldn't be disappointed – it was possible to come to terms with where they might go from this point and what to accept.

Neither brought forth useless complications such as love.

"Do your powers of divination work on other things as well?" Nimue asked instead, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. It wasn't probable, but it never hurt to ask. "Because that would be most helpful."

Considering the way a hand was snaking its way around her breasts, she could guess the answer. "Hmm, I seem to be able to predict that your desire to learn is in no way sated and wish to find out more about what you have been missing all these years."

"I'll consider that a no."

"Ah, but the divination is correct nonetheless, am I right? You certainly are a delight to teach, in any case…such enthusiasm." Which was the slightest bit surprising, considering how skillfully she had been evading giving any kind of definite answer to the suggestion of sex before the sudden change of mind. "Were all your fellow mages so unattractive, I wonder? Not that I am ungrateful for all of these pent up frustrations of yours that obviously needed relieving."

"My studies were my priority." Now _that_ was a most interesting answer, with so many ways to interpret it. "Meaning books, Zevran, so don't give me that look."

The assassin gave a small grin of mischief, idly brushing some hair out of her pale face. While his budding assassin career might have been ruined by this failure, it certainly helped that his target – though of a different kind now – was pleasing to look at. And a quick learner.

"Such a shame… for them, at least." He might actually consider the whole thing a great success even if this remained his only personal victory throughout this quest. "Smiling makes you look much lovelier, my dear, you shouldn't frown so much." That frown was the distinction between the Grey Warden who led them through battle upon battle and the vivacious woman who had finally succumbed to his charm (whether she saw it like this was debatable). "It wounds me that I don't appear to have cheered you up sufficiently… shall we give it another try perhaps?" He'd have to remember to thank Leliana for those delectable robes – now discarded, as planned – which had revealed her most agreeable legs to the world. Stockings or no, they were entirely pleasing to the eye and to the touch, as he was now confirming.

"I'm just wondering how I should break this down to Alistair, that's all."

Ah, the problem had reared its ugly head.

It was somewhat disappointing to see that despite (or because of) what was without a doubt satisfying sex, Nimue was concerned about hurting someone else. In a way, this was understandable, of course; Alistair was an attractive man who made no effort of hiding his affection towards the mage, especially since he apparently didn't have the wit to pull it off. And – what Nimue might not yet have realized and Zevran certainly wasn't going to point out to her – there were ways around the entire "bastard prince can't be with an elven mage because he has to become king" problem. Such as winning over the current queen, who had to at least partly see that her father was leading them all to ruin.

However, while Zevran had no burning need to step aside and throw his rather hard-won prize to a man who might not fully… _appreciate_ her, bringing uncertainty to this arrangement would only complicate things. It was best to make at least a few decision now, while there was still time to amend things, if need be.

"Well, that would depend on what message you wish to convey. Allow me to make it simple for you, my Nimue." Ironically, this was the moment the Warden truly seemed to begin paying attention, though that could be due to Zevran's frequent (and unashamed) usage of many other endearments on varying degrees of the Sickeningly Sweet vs. Likable but Lewd scale. "What happens now is entirely your choice. While I certainly wouldn't mind continuing our little dalliance, I make no claims upon you, nor would I dream of such."

This was the point where one expected the lady to return to her prim and proper façade, ask that they consider this a one-time thing and progress as they were. Keep this a dirty little secret that is to be swept under the rug – and, should the Quest for True Love fail, possibly resume with the decadent adventure.

"I know. That's why I want you."

Nimue had always been one to defy expectations. Her voice was entirely resolute and she hesitated for no more than a blink of an eye. For that matter, her own eyes were warmer now, the positive energy she kept hidden as a power reserve surfacing when her intentions and personality were laid bare.

Through years of training, Zevran was able to cover up the moment he was taken aback with a deep chuckle. "Just because of that?" While the teasing hurt voice wasn't likely to work on her, roaming hands and burning kisses along her exposed neck might. "You certainly know how to stomp a man's pride."

"I'm not saying anything." But her voice was highly breathy and it seemed surprising that she even managed to get out that much, with the way her eyes drowsily fluttered shut and she let out a breath.

"Let's see if I can convince you, then…" Zevran suggested, taking away choice and consequence both to once again fully reshape their meaning.

**o.O.o**

Cooking was a peculiar but fascinating process.

To Nimue, who had spent her life eating in a gigantic dining hall where the finished food magically appeared on your place when you wished for it, having to create your own meal over a campfire was something most interesting. The process of meat being cooked without magic alone was worth a study, but the true wonders were those of making your own tea, creating your own soup and actually seeing how a series of ingredients balanced each other out. In a way, adding ingredients to a stew was akin to leading her ragtag bunch of misfits; one simply had to know which piece complimented the other and arrange them accordingly.

Thank goodness she hadn't allowed Alistair to try and teach her the "traditional Ferelden dishes", though; several months into the journey, it was obvious that templars might be skilled in many uncomfortable techniques, such as standing stock still for hours, scowling without moving their muscles and wearing most peculiar star-spangled (or so it appeared) purple skirts (most were in agreement on that account), cooking wasn't part of their training.

Which was why she had invested in an Orlesian cookbook, of all things, that Bodahn had somehow found near Lothering. Wonders would never cease. True, they couldn't make Sten's favorite cookies in the wilderness, but the Orlesians had some alternatives to that. If there was one thing that Alistair had gotten right, though, it was that Orlesian food was highly pretentious. Getting half the ingredients on the list was a major success, and that was with a skilled herbalist as their cook of the night.

"How is the leg doing?"

Most of the others usually left Nimue alone while she was cooking – they knew the food could turn out a disaster if she was distracted from her book, after all – but every rule had its exception; if there was any companion in whose presence the elf dropped any acquired mannerisms or tasks, it was Wynne.

Running a hand along the length of the former fracture, Nimue smiled. It had been some time since the healing and though she could sometimes feel it be sensitive to especially tough terrain or rapid weather changes, it was as good as new.

"Very well, and thanks again for mending it. I really don't know what I'd do without you, Wynne." she added earnestly. There was also another reason why she appreciated the senior enchanter's presence – she was a counterbalance to Morrigan, something familiar in this entirely new world she was moving through, even after she had gotten used to things like haggling and cooking your own food and having a giant mabari warhound.

"The bones wouldn't grow together properly and you'd most likely end up with a limp. Or, to prevent that, you would have to be carried around like a child." Wynne summarized readily. Her smile faltered just a little bit afterwards. "I suppose some wouldn't object too severely to that, though."

The elf didn't have to check to make certain where Wynne's eyes strayed for a second. After being confronted by Morrigan, she wasn't entirely unprepared for this. Besides, Wynne seemed to consider herself honor-bound to remain her advisor and mentor, even in matters such as these.

"You surprise me, Nimue." she noted, studying the mage, who had looked away for a moment. "Here I thought you and Alistair… and suddenly you turn around and make a rather reckless choice. I certainly wasn't expecting that of you."

"You know about-?"

"Oh, please." Wynne rolled her eyes. She had known for the better part of the last two weeks, but there had been no opportunity to catch Nimue alone, least of all to speak to her about an issue so frivolous in comparison to their trek through Orzammar. "Even if I wasn't a light sleeper, all the self-satisfaction Zevran has been showing would be most difficult to miss. Besides, he actually missed several chances to annoy Leliana and myself, so fixated he was on you. Dare I say that he isn't planning on this being a one-time occurrence?" she asked when Nimue made no reply, determinedly checking the pot. There was much evidence to the contrary, anyway.

Oghren kept reminding them all of that with hints that had left the girl studying her gloves with such intense interest that her eyes could have almost burned through them. It was actually a wonder that Alistair hadn't caught on yet; Wynne had chosen not to say anything out of kindness, hoping that this would be resolved between Nimue and him, and the others had remained tight-lipped about the issue for their own various reasons (even Oghren didn't go beyond the nudge-nudge-wink-wink gestures that were remarkably subtle for someone so intoxicated).

"There is no plan, not that I know of." Wynne bit back a sigh. Of all the things to try to be reasonable about, this was what Nimue fumbled in. Maker knew that Alistair wouldn't leave because of this – though he would no doubt take it badly – but she was a bit worried that the girl hadn't set any kind of boundaries and just plunged into things. It was unlike her. "We just… I know you disapprove of this, but I have my reasons." she said, noticing and misinterpreting the chiding look she was receiving.

"You don't need to justify yourself to me." Though, admittedly, Wynne was interested in the motive for this sudden change.

"No, I do. I care about your opinion." And because Wynne was a master of the look Irving could give a disobedient apprentice; the look that said that he wouldn't take any action against them, but that he wasn't happy with the way things were turning out. "You said to me yourself that Alistair might become the King of Ferelden. And I thought about that, because I know he doesn't want it. Grey Wardens are outlaws now without the support of the monarchy." All facts. "And if we intend to challenge Loghain's claim to said monarchy, we need someone with a claim to the throne, stronger than that of the queen. Be it Arl Eamon if we cure him or Bann Teagan – someone is going to suggest this… and Alistair…" Here, Nimue signed, having predicted the reaction in advance. "He is far too dutiful to refuse. You fill in the gaps."

This surprised Wynne, but also put her a little at ease. It showed that Nimue was planning ahead, or at least attempting to formulate some sort of strategy for the future. Whether she realized any other tactical impacts of her decisions was questionable, but it was peculiar to see that she was able to predict a plausible political plan of action ahead of time when she still remained fascinated by things such as the production of cheese without magic.

"You have based your entire decision on a future that might not be." But very likely would be, Wynne could admit. All those history books in the Circle's library had been good for something, she guessed. "Interesting… and also somewhat true. This wasn't exactly what I meant when I cautioned you about duty, but it does make sense." She saw it now: Nimue was disillusioned. After being betrayed by her best friend, cast off by the Circle and forsworn by a man she knew had cared for her because of what she was, the elf had very few expectations about her own future. "Alistair cares for you deeply, but no one would accept a queen who is an elf, a mage, a Grey Warden and a commoner to boot.

Nimue's head snapped up, into rapt attention, as if Wynne had suggested that they invite the archdemon to a tea party to settle their differences and play some board games. "That possibility never even crossed my mind." She seemed frightened of anyone even suggesting this, which she firmly chose to ignore. Of course she wouldn't consider it, because it wasn't possible.

"It didn't?" Wynne called that a lie, at worst, a denial, at best, but looked at the younger woman with kindness. "Either you are more selfless than you admit, or you have less ambition than I supposed."

"No, I just… I don't want another cage. I don't want to spend the rest of my life – be it long or short – trapped somewhere. Be it a fortress or… or something intangible."

_A gilded cage… pretty, but confining…_

And arms wrapped around her, pulling her close without the intention of imprisoning her, making her feel safe and strong and free…

"Ah. You care for him as well. I see."

The fantasy ended very quickly, as did the fleeting ludicrous image of what Wynne had suggested.

"All I want to say is that I know what I'm doing and… it's for the best." Nimue tried to project an air of finality with that statement. This attempt to move on before she crashed into complications that were a solid rock wall blocking that path was proving relatively effective and she didn't want to ruin it.

"Perhaps I can agree with that justification, but it still doesn't explain why you would choose to start a relationship with a man who tried to kill you and quite obviously wants only one thing from you."

The elf shrugged. "Well, it simplifies things, doesn't it?"

"There's no need to be flippant." This was one of the negative aspects of spending time in the company of those who used this defense mechanism – Nimue was picking it up rather effectively. "I'd just like to caution you against something you might come to regret."

"It's a little too late for regret now." the elf pointed out, stirring the pot in an almost blasé fashion. The concept of intimacy no longer frightened her, now that she was entirely familiar with it, and as long as things remained as they were, she didn't really see a reason for such sentiment.

"No, child. I mean that it might not be as easy for you to detach yourself from a purely sexual relationship. You form attachments quite easily, if your companions are anything to judge by. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

The masque cracked a little with a sigh and a brief glance down. "Wynne, you know as well as I that mages cannot expect happily ever afters with marriage or children." She spoke much more quietly when she said that, with a kind of resigned acceptance. "I've already given up much. Don't ask me to give up everything. Because I won't."

Determination and decisiveness was returning. "I only wish to caution you, Nimue. Perhaps you are not destined to be royalty, but you are the one leading us against this Blight. What you do affects people's perceptions."

"You'd think that with the darkspawn invasion, Loghain wiping out the Ferelden Wardens and the individual problems of our potential allies, my non-existent love life wouldn't be the focus of people's opinions." the young mage muttered to her warhound, who was approaching the smell of her cooking warily, the elf stirring the pot with newfound gusto.


	4. Cage

Chapter four of the Fracture series, again posted separately, because it can qualify as a one-shot without having to be read in context with the others (though it certainly helps).

I'm in the process of devising a plotline for a longer DA fic regarding Bann Teagan proposing to Surana and the party (especially Alistair and Zevran) panicking about that in their various ways. Hilarity will ensue, no doubt! That should take several chapters, but I don't know when that might get posted.

Stay tuned and please review!

**o.O.o**

**Cage**

**o.O.o**

Deciding to tell one of your most trusted companions and now most certainly dearest friends (who was apparently in love with you) that you were choosing another man (and not just any other man, but an assassin who had tried to kill you and whose loyalties were still up in the air as far as anyone was concerned) was easy.

The actual telling wasn't.

Nimue just didn't know how to start the conversation. How _did _one say such a thing? Give a nice pretext about how much she valued his company, how she was glad that they were such good friends, because friends was all that they were likely to remain, because, hey, she was already in a (somewhat) romantic relationship? The mage tried to be practical in many things, but not to the point of harshness.

The trouble was, after being told quite plainly that everyone could see the templar pining after her, it became quite ostentatiously obvious to her as well.

It had been so gradual, the change, that she hadn't really noticed it at all; the progress from wary acknowledgment of her new partner to the friendship forged in fires of loss… and now this, something she couldn't easily define. It showed now, though; the gentler tone Alistair used when they spoke, the continued efforts to make her smile (which usually succeeded, making him visibly brighten up) and, most of all, the shy and then even longing glances in her general direction.

Even she, without any experience with romantic love or even deeper affection, managed to notice this time. And something close to her heart always proceeded to announce its presence whenever she did, reminding her that she could yet go back on her choice – because, disappointed though Zevran might be, he wouldn't object and he would shrug things off and take it in stride – and plunge head-first into what she recognized now as love.

She didn't feel the same… not yet, or so she believed, because years upon years of being made to believe that anyone outside the safety of the Tower must hate you and templars will try to kill you for the tiniest misstep were difficult to forget. But the words and gestures she would have rejected before as pointless or not recognized them at all had become endearing to her.

And then, just as she had mustered the will to finally tell him – because, in the end, this wasn't fair, not to him or to her current lover, who might not make any verbal claims but whose every touch held an unspoken casual possessiveness that he would never admit to – he gave her the rose.

No one had ever given her a gift before. Not even one that came as a price, as Morrigan had suggested when she had received her precious mirror.

Mages, discouraged from romantic relationships as they were, were hardly the sort to be taught about the significance of flowers.

"It's pretty, but I don't think it's really compatible with the other ingredients I have." That had been her first reply.

Alistair looked as if he wasn't certain whether to laugh heartily at this suggestion or feel pity, because she obviously knew even less about romance than he did. Which was Most Definitely Not Good, given the present situation. Leliana's advice about gifts and catching the mystery 'special woman' at camp hadn't fallen on deaf ears, but the bard hadn't counted on the woman in question to have been raised to always remember that she was a mage first, anything else second.

Or perhaps she had known, Alistair realized with some horror, and she had suggested this in a way to confirm her status as the Ultimate Evil. Not that he could tell her as such, because that would, of course, be playing right into her hands... or it would lead to more teasing than Wynne was regularly subjecting him to and definitely not of the grandmotherly kind.

In the end, he settled for the compromise of blushing embarrassment; not the best of choices, likely, but a natural reaction.

"I thought you might just want to keep it… as a gift." he clarified, trying not to look into her quizzical eyes. Peculiar and horrible, how mages were being kept from things most people considered natural, simply because of their powers. "I-I know you're very practical and efficient, but I thought… I thought that someone should let you know that… that the world isn't so dark yet that beauty is completely gone from it." Perhaps now she understood - hopefully, because she still looked rather starstruck, her eyes large and her lips only slightly parted and close... okay, this most certainly wasn't a productive line of thought at the moment. "It's just been made much more precious… to those of us that are fortunate enough to find it…"

Words Nimue would say had escaped her completely. She knew nothing of poetry and had very limited knowledge of flowery metaphors, but even she could see that these words - which would have seen impossibly fake if not spoken with genuine emotion - would not fall flat, even with her as the recipient.

Mages weren't meant to be appreciated. Elves weren't to be looked at with tenderness by humans. And yet, there he stood, the embodiment of the exception, the likely future king of the land, seeking her favor.

The future king…

"I… I don't know what to say." she stammered out, stunned into speechlessness for what was possibly the first time in her life.

Wynne had been right. A king needed a queen. And even if she wished for such things (she _didn't_), even if she was the noblest of people in all of Ferelden (Nimue wasn't a hypocrite, not that much, anyway, and lied to other people, not herself), nothing could make her a suitable candidate for that.

This could only end in tragedy.

"That you promise not to chop it up and boil it for some kind of salve?" Alistair had suggested, the single trait that Morrigan utterly despised about him surfacing. "Of course, it could add some flavor to the poultices, I guess, or at least cover up some of the medical smell, but I think I'd rather you kept it. I-if you like it, that is, and aren't going to start pointing and laughing at me with Leliana."

"You know I wouldn't do that." First of all, Nimue made a point of not trying to be harsh on her companions without reason. Second of all, Leliana would likely subject her to a long talk about courting and how she should behave in this situation as a proper lady. Or give advice on how to better secure this hold over another person, most likely.

Alistair hardly appeared convinced. "For a cloistered sister, she's certainly been giggling quite a lot and trying to draw you into her schemes. I'm onto her evil schemes, you know." he added conspiratively. "Next thing you know she'll be teaching you tavern songs."

Nimue had known nothing of music before meeting Leliana; or about any kind of art, really. She had never read a book that wasn't about magic or history or science or ever seen an image that was to be displayed merely for its beauty and value rather than any learning purpose. She stared at the rose, twisting it between her fingers, as if it might bite her (thorns aside).

The templar noticed.

"Seriously, though, Nimue…" Maker's breath, even her name was smooth and flowing, almost like a river. "Nimue, if you think it's a stupid thing to give, you don't have to pretend to like it…"

"No." the mage said without thinking. Instantly, she corrected herself, knowing that either path was damnation right now. "No, it isn't stupid. Certainly not." The sharp edge to her voice retreated. "I just… I don't have anything to give you in return for it. I don't really know much about gifts and customs and what is appropriate in such situations…"

Alistair almost grinned in a way that Morrigan would have aptly described as a dog happy at having pleased its master.

"Gifts don't require compensation." _You are my gift just by being near me_, he had hoped to say, but the words simply refused to come out and maybe it was too soon and she was really just struggling with politeness and… "Besides, it's not likely to last very long before it wilts…"

There was a bitter edge to the light smile playing on Nimue's lips, hardened by experience and realism. "I guess you were right. It is sort of like me, isn't it?"

Either of them could die at any point. It was likely that they were going towards their death - either glorious or spectacularly unimpressive - though they intended to make certain it was at the hands of the darkspawn and not of the traitor who hunted them now.

It was chilling to see how someone who tried her best to put on a brave face whenever in the company of others and gave hope to so many had such a view of her own existence. Heroes burn bright and die young, this was true in the tales of honor and glory. But they were hardly hoping for either; all they were fighting for was the end of the Blight, no matter how it might come to pass.

"That's not really the comparison I wanted to draw." Alistair noted, stifling a shaky laugh.

However, it served to reinforce the pledge to protect her he had made to himself. This had been made first because she had seemed so frightened of everything, from the constant sunlight (rather reminiscent of Oghren's first moment outside Orzammar) to the actual fighting (she had very obviously never fought for her life before, outside the controlled environment of a duel), only then because she was their hope (because he _couldn't _lead them, even though he joked on the matter often) and, most recently, because there was so much life in her eyes when she was happy that made her something worth preserving (and she was kind though others might despise her for what she was, brave even though she remained full of fear... and as beautiful as a winter sunrise after a stormy night).

"It isn't true anyway."

The look on her face wasn't resigned or indulging, but it was clear from something about the slight raising of her eyebrows that she didn't really believe that. "How can you be so sure?"

But they talked about death and demons every day and right now, this really wasn't what Alistair wanted to return to. There would be time to fight and despair and hope against hope later.

"You know, you're doing this all wrong." the templar said flatly, but there was laughter in his eyes. Whether or not it was genuine, Nimue couldn't tell. "This is not how this conversation is supposed to go at all. You're supposed to be succumbing to my wit and sensitive yet manly charm right now, not doubting yourself. Besides, you wouldn't stay down for long. You're too much of a plucky girl for that, I know that much. Bringing down a world of hurt on the darkspawn and all that."

"Thank you, Alistair." It was more profound than anything else she could have said, genuine and heartfelt, a complete truth. "You just… surprised me and it… really means a lot to me."

The sunrise had returned.

"I'm glad, then. I had hoped you'd like it."

He was stammering, of course, but it couldn't be helped. Even if she still didn't fully realize what it meant, it made him jubilant. Funny word, that. Joooo-bee-lant. He didn't get to use it too often. But she was still there, with the rose, and the situation was really becoming very uncomfortable, because someone had to say something and it didn't seem that she was about to confess her undying devotion.

"So… now that we've had positively the most awkward conversation ever, if we could just skip straight to the steamy bits, I'd appreciate it."

Judging by the puzzled look she gave him and then the sudden understanding... he couldn't really divine anything from that, damn it, because she wasn't blushing (which was odd, because he had received embarrassed silence and a sound whack from a heavy tome after suggesting that he was expecting her as a mage to be promiscuous) and she wasn't laughing and calling out the bluff as she would usually do.

"Steamy- oh. I didn't realize…" For some reason, she actually blanched. "Does… does accepting this mean… marriage?" The last word came out tighter than the rest. "Or something similar?" In his childhood, Alistair had often pretended to be the brave knight rescuing the swooning princess. Now he was the one who felt like fainting, for the first time in his life. "Because I think I read something involving jewelry…"

As always, he chose to laugh instead of delving too deeply into the fact that she seemed frightened of the notion. "You won't land me that easily, woman. I know I'm quite the prize; no need to start crying on me or anything."

"But... does it have any kind of significance? Similar to that, I mean." Nimue asked carefully. She really needed the answer to this, because this could very well mean danger in the future. "I'm unfamiliar with the customs regarding... because..." The elf frowned, because she was receiving no answer, not even laughter, and the templar seemed redder by the minute. Moreover, she spotted Leliana discreetly pretending not to be watching things. "Alistair?"

"I, ah, suppose this is the moment I make my strategic retreat while leaving you pining after me."

That was answer enough. Nimue knew that the time had come to set the record straight, before someone got hurt.

"Alistair, you should know-"

But he wasn't listening, apparently about one step away from running off with his hands clapped over his ears and humming nonsensical tunes. "No, no, no, the awkwardness limit for today has been reached! You'll just have to go through the silent longing phase like everyone else, young lady!" He gave a pretty good impression of a chiding grandfather before running off to see if Wynne was done with his socks (the elderly mage had relented on that account, possibly due to the increased annoyance factor of leaving it up to Alistair).

The rose still in her hand, Nimue was left standing there, feeling highly foolish and reminded again of the moment when Jowan had run off, leaving her and Lily to take the full weight of the blame for their ill-planned escape attempt. Only this time, no Duncan would swoop in to save her from punishment for her own foolishness.

She kept the flower, because she did indeed value the sentiment. But even after Sten and Zevran returned with the meat quota for the night's dinner an hour or so later, she didn't know how to resolve this. It was Oghren's turn to cook tonight, which meant that most of the camp would be on standby and keeping their wary eyes on the dwarf, the fire and whatever was boiling or burning, because the berserker had a penchant for using wine as an ingredient in any stew he made and his aim wasn't entirely steady...

Suffice to say, it was a good thing that Morrigan had become quite skilled at controlling fire, be it magical or normal, even though it annoyed the living daylights out of her that she had to waste time babysitting a dwarf and not reading her books in her own distant tent. The witch also usually refused to eat whenever someone she didn't like was cooking, instead choosing to transform into one of the many animal forms she had mastered and go seek out her own food.

Nimue herself was exempt from the general state of alertness for the first time, sitting on a blanket in front of her tent thoughtfully, another cloth wrapped around her shoulders, her legs crossed and the rose still twirling in her fingers. No one paid her any attention up till the point that Zevran got bored (which, considering the spectacle Oghren was making of himself when trying to cook, with their warhound sniffing around and being chased away at regular intervals, was a feat to admire) and decided to openly grace her with his presence (since the general focus of their companions was indeed elsewhere).

"Frowning most definitely doesn't become you, my Warden."

It was a more impersonal form of address, for various reasons, her apparent somber mood being one of them. The endearments would have to wait until the degree of her annoyance tonight was established - and Zevran was a master at pushing that level once he discovered it, even though it was good-natured and usually turned out to be quite an effective way of cheering her up once the annoyance cracked.

"There have been no darkspawn attacks today, so I fail to see – ah."

The movement of her hands had always drawn his attention. Nimue didn't have particularly long fingers, her hands remaining slightly childlike, but there was a fluid grace to their movement, whenever she cast spells or wrote or fiddled with something, like she was doing now. Zevran would almost go as far as suppose that she could have made a pickpocket par excellence in another life... or learned to wield a light weapon with deadly grace.

But now was not the time for such thoughts.

"That pretty little weed is a gift from Alistair, I gather." the assassin summarized readily, something within him steeling itself for the possibility that she had changed her mind. After all, that was an ever-present threat when she was being offered something no other man had likely been willing to give her and she had yet to reject it fully.

Nimue nodded, biting back what could have been a sigh.

"I was about to tell him… about us." she clarified unnecessarily. Obviously, the gift had been given to her prior to that and she had chosen to be courteous and not do what would be the equivalent of taking a hammer and smashing a fragile glass window to Alistair's feelings. "I couldn't just do it like that…"

How interesting that she could make the difficult decisions on the battlefield with ready ease, yet when it came to things like this, she was entirely indecisive.

A shame, in any case.

"You do understand, however, that the longer you take, the deeper he will be hurt." Assuming she still intended to give the answer she had decided on before.

Again, the mage nodded grimly. "I am aware of it."

Well, that was remarkably laconic of her. It was better to inflict pain sooner to allow time to heal, rather than deal a deeper wound without the opportunity to treat it. Alistair was the kind of man who would go out and die for the sake of his lady, but certainly he wasn't foolish enough to simply get himself killed for a rejection. At least, Zevran hoped he wasn't giving their little prince too much credit.

Of course, Nimue might not see that and, for the sake of not estranging her fellow Warden and earliest companion, compromise... or stall. The latter seemed unlikely, given her flaw of knowing that she made worse decisions the more she procrastinated. If the former be the case, better to resolve things quickly, if only to... clear the air, as it were.

"Nimue, remember that you can still-" She could still end things between them and be the hopeless romantic. It would likely have consequences, which she had put in front of herself as arguments for her prior choice, but that was just a hypothetical future. And Nimue, while relatively good at planning from a long-term perspective, was still hardly omniscient.

It was obvious that it was serious just by the fact that he used her given name without any pretext. Zevran was no master of serious conversation, of course, and just beginning this sentence reminded him of why he preferred his own idly intrusive nothings.

There was an odd feeling of relief when she blinked blankly, as if something like this had never occurred to her. Nimue rarely promised things, after all, and thus she seemed to view her word as sacrosanct.

"So eager to be rid of me, are you, Zevran?" she asked, a strange (possibly rueful) smile playing around her lips. Still, it was better than the grim expression a frown always carved into her features, if only barely.

"Not by any means." the assassin said at once, basking in the sight of her and the very pleasant memories of her sans the offending blanket and clothing. In the end, that was likely all he'd be able to keep, after all. "But you _are_ free to pursue your fancies as you wish, as I do; I would have it no other way."

Reminding her that this dalliance was without any strings attached might have been unnecessary, given the reasons she had stated for giving in, but it was something to be given consideration, especially since the elf highly doubted that their virtuous templar (like Oghren, he recognized virginity when he saw it, Nimue herself being the only possible exception and even that doubt had sprung only after he had slept with her) had designs only on the fair Warden's body.

That this seemed to frighten her for some reason instead of excite her, like it should a young woman that had been rushed into experiencing so much loss and darkness at once, was a major trump card against Alistair, though.

"I am also thinking in my own interest, you must understand." Zevran added, shrugging slightly. "Regret isn't a good motivator for sex, especially not with a woman with your responsible nature."

He liked Alistair well enough (after all, it was so amusing to watch him blush over the most ridiculous things and watch him splutter), but it was hardly his intention to bring the two Wardens together. For one thing, if events unfurled according to Nimue's apparent plans, things wouldn't go well for them. And while a broken-hearted woman was usually easy to console, she could also turn her hatred upon unsuspecting targets. But if she was to have second thoughts, well, what was the point?

"Regret is a natural display of selfishness." Nimue noted, being perhaps wiser than she thought herself to be. She couldn't and didn't want to have both of them.

Talking to Alistair made her feel strange at times, perhaps akin to the uncertainty of growing love… but being with Zevran made her _happy right now_, without any of the uncertainty of what might happen or whether there was any future for them. And not just the actual sex. Even before that, their conversations had brought her to laughter when she had supposed the only direct outlet of emotion she was capable of was anger. There was a certainty in their relationship that she could cling to when she had nothing else.

Not that it seemed like a good idea to tell him that, mind you, but she was more grateful for the beautiful simplicity of it than she cared to admit.

And if the choice came down to happiness now and grief later or happiness now and we'll see what comes next… it wasn't much of a choice.

"I'm not changing my mind. I'll return this after dinner." The rose between her fingers froze over with a surge of magic, its beauty and color eternally preserved in magical ice. With that, she set it aside, leaving it forgotten in her pack, and tried to smile, because she finally knew what she wanted and what she must do. "So you better not try to make me anymore, because I-"

She never got to finish the sentence, for several reasons. The first being that Oghren had fainted again, almost knocking over the pot of the now-ready stew. Wynne had quickly grabbed the fragile bowls and taken them away from the dwarf's reach, while Morrigan simply rolled her eyes and stalked away muttering to herself not very quietly at all.

But mostly because Zevran had carefully timed cutting her off with a most expressive kiss for the moment when most of the others would at least glance in her direction to see if she intended to do anything about the general mayhem (being the only person who could get everyone to listen).

Needless to say, it seemed to get the message across more plainly than words could have done, especially that she didn't resist. Not that she could, really; Nimue hadn't been expecting this at all and froze almost as if she were under a spell of petrification for the first few moments. Were this not also embarrassing, she could have actually enjoyed it. But with several other people watching, it wasn't nearly as engrossing as it could otherwise have been.

Especially since her hearing began working once more when she no longer saw stars.

"I do not understand this action it makes of attempting to bite the other's face off." And, of course, Shale had to be the one with the rational questions without any hint of Ignore It and It Will Go Away or at least a polite Pretend It's Not Happening and Talk About the Weather.

"It's about showing affection, Shale." Leliana, for her part, had an undertone to her voice that seemed to suggest that she was extremely giddy about the situation (for some reason), but (what Nimue couldn't see) her eyes darted to Alistair once or twice and softened slightly "Or, eh, appreciation, I suppose."

The golem remained unconvinced. "It is quite ineffective as a form of attack and a strange way of instigating reproduction."

Whatever the bard said in response to that went unnoticed by Nimue, because the fingers that had delved into her hair to prevent her from escaping had retreated a little to trace the outline of her ears and she was finally almost able to transfer her weight back to her legs - the sudden motion of being pushed backwards had forced her to push her arms behind herself to prevent the fall. It had also meant that any possibility of casting a spell had been blocked.

Right now, she felt as if someone had pushed her off the edge of a cliff and into the ocean... and the waves had finally allowed her to surface, taking the first breath of air.

"I did warn you, my dear." That the look of anger and surprise she was obviously trying to project came out seductive without her even trying was most certainly something to remember and Zevran made it his business to take note of such details. "Choices always have consequences. However, I think this sends out the message you intended to convey quite clearly, yes?"

"You are utterly evil." Ah, but she was most enticing when she was angry (or tried to seem so). The breathy voice might have helped as well, of course, along with the short, shallow breaths.

The assassin flashed her a shameless grin. "Guilty as charged, precious." Her eyelids no longer twitched in annoyance, but Zevran knew pushing her too far right now would serve no purpose, perhaps even return to bite him not soon after. "I hope for a reward for helping you out of your predicament later on." Finally, there it was, the fire in her eyes that one normally associated either with great pleasure or extreme pain. Either of which would likely be inflicted on the other person. Just in case she was in the mood for latter, he posed one last question. "Shall we finally make use of that spare rope lying about?"

"I hate you." Nimue intoned, gritting her teeth in an attempt to restore the cage around her emotions, giving a particularly strong mental kick to whatever libido she possessed. Apparently, it thought that after being released for the first time ever, it could just run around and mess up her rationality. Which was unacceptable, said rationality punctuated each word. Some order had to be maintained.

Discipline. _Punishment._

With lither grace than any cat might display (not that Nimue could make good comparisons on the matter, having seen only a limited number of cats during her short time out of the tower), Zevran sprang to his feet just in time to get out of range of whatever spell she was considering casting (or maybe just the old-fashioned punches), still grinning at her like a shopkeeper who had bought the Urn of Andraste for the price of an ordinary vase filled with dirt.

"Ah, ah, ah, you might want to hate me now, but you will only _want_ me once you're finished here, trust me."

Casually dodging a rather well-aimed fireball, the assassin blew her another kiss while never ceasing to smile and walked off to get food as if nothing had happened, the air of smugness not vanishing even though Nimue couldn't see his expression.

Before she proceeded to bury her face in her hands and bite back a groan, she did manage to see that, while Wynne had enlisted a highly clench-jawed Sten's help at removing the still unconscious Oghren from the general vicinity of the fire, Leliana was smiling at her in a most unhelpfully I'm So Glad To See You Happy way while apparently completely missing the point and Alistair was... very pointedly not looking at her, because, apparently, watching cuisine a la Oghren change colors in your bowl was most intriguing, to the point that it made you look as if someone had splashed you with cold water early in the morning.

Not good. At all.

Actually, the only good thing about the whole situation was that Oghren was still blacked out and therefore couldn't easily dispense his own special kind of condolences to the templar and possibly congratulations or the I Knew It speech and other at the moment rather unwelcome things to Nimue.

The mage had lost all appetite for food.

"Rabbit!" she called, rising to her feet. The blanket, she shrugged off, feeling as if it could start snowing right then and she would barely feel it, short sleeves or no.

The one who responded to his call was the giant mabari warhound, who, having already eaten some and remembering his own experiences with the food the dwarf usually made, eagerly sprang to his elf's side. She was restless, obviously, and that usually made her wish to seek solitude or only his company.

"Do you want me to save you a share, Nimue?"

It was Wynne who asked, watching the younger mage with carefully layered concern. She could recognize the moments when their leader wished to be left alone and, despite the danger anyone who was going off alone was in, she could understand why Nimue would wish to. Obviously, she had been telling the truth when she had said that there was no plan. Or if there had been, it had clearly gone awry.

Her answer was a distracted nod.

"Just a little, if there's any left. Rabbit and I are going to take a walk and see if I can find any more elfroot in the vicinity."

A pretext, if the world ever saw one, but she didn't even make the effort of making up something more imaginative. Gathering up one pack for the ingredient gathering, Nimue prodded the warhound to lead the way and disappeared into the nearby woods, the blue of her robes blending into the trees peculiarly.

Some time after she disappeared, Wynne chose to be the one to step in again - because Alistair obviously wasn't in the state to do so, nor did he entirely have the right to do so, despite being very close to Nimue - and actually gritted her teeth so that she could get through this necessary talk.

Maker knew she wouldn't have chosen to willingly endure Zevran's overactive and quite intrusive flirtations if she didn't care for Nimue's well-being.

"I understand that the two of you have a... an agreement." No pretext, no carefully starting the issue; merely facts and frank honesty. "But I refuse to see you treat Nimue as a toy just for your own amusement."

Once he understood that the elderly mage intended to take on the role of the disapproving mother, Zevran chuckled heartily. "My, my, Wynne, such fire in your words. You prepared a speech just for me? I had no idea you cared so much."

"I don't want to listen to your nonsense now." Wynne countered, sighing and shaking her head resolutely when the elf tapped the ground next to him with the smile that always made everyone worry that he was picturing them naked and doing something that was probably illegal beyond the Antivan border. "My concern is Nimue. Most of what the girl knows of the world she learned from books."

"So you believe that she succumbed to my wicked ways because she is young, impressionable and doesn't know any better?" For someone who deflected everything so easily with innuendo, the elf certainly had either more wit than he cared to display or a sizeable amount of experience with warnings such as this. "Come now, you know that only the first of those is the case."

"All I want is for you to see that she deserves to carry out her choices in her own way. Right now, you are her choice. I accept that because she seems happy. Tread with care, or you will lose her."

Again, she received an amused glance in response. Such peculiar people, these Fereldans. Humans, especially. None of them seemed to understand that caging another person with chains of vows and promises hardly ever led to productive happiness.

However, if it would assuage her...

"My dear Wynne, the fair Warden isn't mine in the sense you seem to mean. Not by any stretch of the imagination." Zevran said easily, feeling a bit as if he were explaining things to a child.

The way the mage raised her eyebrows stated her opinion on the matter quite clearly. She didn't even bother correcting that she was neither his nor dear.

"Words are one thing, Zevran. Actions are another." she said instead, leaving the nonsense at that. Whose words and actions, she didn't care to clarify.

By the time Nimue returned, the assassin had quite forgotten this final note of the lecture. However, had others who had watched before with dismay heard it, it is likely they wouldn't have dismissed wisdom tempered by age and experience so lightly.


	5. Bandages

Chapter five in the Fracture series of linked one-shots, again posted separately as well due to its theme.

The first scene – a flashback, in fact – was inspired by the exceedingly talented aimo's fanart of the cloaked and ambiguous PC bandaging Zevran's arm while he seems to want something else besides that… If you haven't yet come across her wonderful art, check it out at aimostudio dot com or search for it on deviantart. With the great amount of cloaked-PC artwork she has, you won't be disappointed even if your own characters don't look like the ones she's drawing now!

Cue drama, because decision and confrontation time is here!

**o.O.o**

**Bandages**

**o.O.o**

In a sense, the signs should have become clear much sooner than this.

Nimue seemed to have a penchant for attracting odd companions and always struggled to make everyone feel welcome – or, at the very least, keep them from trying to rip each other's throats out, which was a more difficult task than one might imagine. Morrigan, they had been forced to take along, because they were in need of someone to guide them out of the Wilds; and risking offending Flemeth was something even Alistair could admit wasn't a good idea. Their warhound, they had encountered soon after, and Nimue promptly decided to keep him, partly because she found him fascinating and partly because she couldn't resist the puppy eyes he gave her.

Leliana, while having a peculiar reason for joining their little entourage, was a peaceful presence who introduced Nimue to any matter of art and provided a nice, peaceful counterbalance to Morrigan – even though both mages seemed to share the opinion that, somewhere along the line, Leliana's devotion to the Maker had crossed the boundaries of fanaticism. Still, it was peculiar to witness that Nimue could remain on cordial – if wary – terms with the cleric, yet she seemed more interested in Morrigan's views on matters most of the time. Sten's one motivation seemed to be duty, which no one questioned, in light of his prowess.

But no matter why they had chosen to come along, each of them had a valid reason to come along and could be trusted to a degree – even Morrigan, who seemed to be willing to obey her mother for whatever reason the ancient witch had given her, even while complaining every step of the way.

Zevran was another story entirely.

Yes, it was good to keep your enemies close and Nimue did give valid reasons for sparing his life – adding later on that Loghain had been the one to give the order to kill them, making it pointless to hate the instrument of his plans – but, from the very beginning (once he got revived, that is), the elf's expression always changed very subtly when he looked at the junior Grey Warden.

Like she was a mystery prize in a contest that he was determined to have for his own, whatever that might take.

Perhaps he used that same look on Leliana and Morrigan (Wynne had not yet joined their party and – despite the subsequent flirtations that made their target and unsuspecting listeners highly uncomfortable – Alistair never saw the elf look at her like this, maybe because with her, it was more of a game). But if Alistair's observations were correct – Morrigan would have a lot to say on that account, no doubt – whenever it was possible for Nimue to be the prime target, she became it.

The night they had recruited the assassin, Nimue took some of their healing tools and a share of food and actually approached the man as if this were a common occurrence for her. The others were resting after having set up the camp or eating Leliana's excellent omelet, but Alistair remained wary of their leader's actions.

"She has a good heart to do this, and who better than her to break the ice, no?" Leliana said when he brought this up, handing him his share of the food.

Only Rabbit seemed to agree the tiniest bit with him, keeping an eye on Zevran, but otherwise confident in Nimue's ability to judge people. After all, if his Master could tame the charcoal witch, she could no doubt control the shadow warrior.

Even if he did lose points with Rabbit for telling stories of dog-treatment in his land.

Nimue, on the other hand, wasn't yet convinced how this could actually work, but knew that she would have to speak with the assassin sooner or later and choose the former. Their conversation was to set the tone of their relationship for a while.

"I have some poultices and bandages for whatever injuries you still have." she said as she handed him the bowl of food the elf hadn't yet decided to go take. In truth, there had been certain doubts about whether the others would actually allow him to partake in their food for the time-being. It was a good peace-making instrument on Nimue's side, this gesture.

However, too much charity also had a downside; the assassin gave a wry sort of smirk, very different from the carefree and confident smiles of hours past.

"An inventive punishment, that, bringing that up only after a lengthy journey." After reviving him, only the most life-threatening of his wounds had been healed, ensuring that he was able to walk… but not without pain. Of course, that might have to do with the fact that Morrigan had been the one administering the poultices, being a little more skilled than the other mage at healing, while the rest of them scavenged the dead assassins for whatever they might need.

Consequently, it also could have something to do with Morrigan's impatience with his consistent flattery.

"There wasn't any time for it back then." Nimue noted, refusing to be guilt-tripped as she unfolded the bandages. "Besides, you did try to kill me."

Ah, that argument again. The assassin tsked ruefully, shaking his head a little. "It isn't very productive for our future cooperation if we dwell on who tried to kill who, fair Warden."

"Neither would forgetting it be. I don't intend to dwell on it, if it puts you at ease. I have a grudge against the mind that came up with the order, the hand that sought out the sword, but not the weapon itself." Now that was an interesting analogy; who knew that she had a mind for metaphors? Perhaps she liked poetry as well… hopefully a certain kind of it… "Eat something, I'll try to fix this a bit with magic. I don't know how much good it'll do, though." She could ruin her lips if she kept biting them like that, which would be an utmost shame.

"And so your ulterior motive reveals itself at long last." The mage looked up, a little confused, which was a wonderful addition to the act. "There's no need to be ashamed of a yearning for physical contact, my dear. All you have to do is ask."

Her left eye twitched just a little and _my _but could she emphasize the cold color of her eyes with that look. "I am neither dear nor yours. And you should know in advance that if you disrupt my concentration again, I might accidentally stop your heart instead of healing your arm."

Now she was just setting herself up. "You hardly require magic for that, with such beauty at your disposal."

"Zevran, I've already received a sarcastic opinion on sparing your life courtesy of Morrigan and Alistair keeps looking at me as if I've grown a second head." the mage noted flatly, just to make the situation clear. "Even Leliana isn't as enthusiastic about your presence as she wished to be. If you alienate me, you'll only have Rabbit supporting the alternative of you traveling with us."

Having just the dog on his side would indeed be a sad state of things, especially when it had been established that this was his chief contender for the position of honorary bed-warmer for the lady. Alistair didn't count, from what he had seen; even if he hadn't been revealed as a templar, Zevran would have guessed that he was a virgin just by looking at him. And since it didn't seem that their leader was smitten with him, well, that sort of eliminated his chances.

"I am curious about why you would choose to name a giant mabari after a small rodent." Giving her a bit of room by temporarily steering the conversation elsewhere might be beneficial on the long run; whatever Taliesin might claim, Zevran did occasionally have good plans, even if they usually tended to involve sex. Besides, he was actually curious. "It hardly seems traditional, with this dog-worship you Fereldans seem to practice."

A small scoff nearly managed to disguise the small smile passing through her eyes, but Zevran was trained to notice details. Twice as much when they involved the expressions of targets. "Blame Alistair. When we found the dog and chose to keep him, Alistair remarked that mages should have cats to sit on their broomsticks or a rabbit to pull out of a hat." Thankfully, he hadn't suggested that they also turned people into frogs, otherwise that might have stuck. "We haven't been able to get him to respond to any other name since."

"You allowed another to name your mabari?" And the dog had accepted it? Knowing what he did about the hounds, Zevran had enough cause to raise his eyebrows just a little. Perhaps he had underestimated their templar's cunning and influence somewhat. "You must be close indeed."

"We're friends." Or not. Nimue didn't say it defensively or curtly, merely stating a fact.

That was what she thought, obviously, even now, the assassin could feel whenever Alistair glanced at them and the frequency had increased ever since Nimue had begun bandaging his arm carefully.

"If that were so, he wouldn't keep looking at us to determine what exactly is going on. No, don't look now." Fortunately, the mage managed to stop the reflex and continued with her work only after a surprised look and a motionless instant. "There is no cause for alarm… but Alistair certainly seems to think so." Now this could yet be fun. The all-too-wide smile of a gambler who knew the odds were on his side at the moment appeared on Zevran's face. "Not very subtle, is he?"

Nimue actually snorted a little bit, effectively voicing her opinion on the matter. "Neither are you. Now, please stop fidgeting or this'll get all tangled." she added, twisting a bandage to get it unfolded.

"A little tangling isn't entirely undesirable, is it? So harsh, these cold glances of yours." the assassin said, entirely undeterred by them. They did say that the frosty ones were usually hiding an inferno behind their mask… "And yet they leave a man burning with desire."

"I can set you on fire, if you prefer." Nimue suggested, her fingers trembling just a little. He wasn't even her type, Maker damn it, if she had one, considering her lack of any experience in this department. But she knew she had liked Jowan's dark hair, despite viewing him as more of a brother than an actual man and found temperance more agreeable than brazen words. But before she squished it with her rationality, something within her posed this argument. "In fact, I'm better at that than healing. But, seriously, please hold still." Perhaps that might work better than attempting to employ similar strategies. "I don't have the patience to start over."

"You might not know much healing magic, but you know much about conventional healing for a Circle mage." Zevran commented a little later as she continued her surprisingly tender administrations. A shame they were accompanied with the entirely platonic focus she would have awarded any patient, including the warhound.

"Accidents happen even in the tower."

"I'm sure there are tales worth telling there. Such as this." There was a small line near her right eyebrow, perhaps the makings of a scar or simply a minor wound yet to be healed. The mage froze into a rigid stance when he traced the outline of the injury with a single finger, carefully not making contact with the line itself.

"It happens when your best friend who insists that he isn't a blood mage turns out to be a liar." So _that_ was why she had chosen not to heal it. A reminder, then. Interesting. "Now remove the hand, please, or have it removed." she added patiently when the offending hand showed every intention of either twirling a strand of her hair or continuing its path along her cheek. The latter applied, but it was a brief contact, quickly ended.

While Zevran's arsenal of innocent smiles wasn't particularly wide, he could manage a teasing one quite easily. "It is a mere innocent touch, my Warden." Again, that little twitch, even if she didn't voice her irked sentiments. "If your coldness is spent on outrage over such gestures, I can almost imagine the passion you'd unleash at a different caress…"

"Are you always going to be like this?" Exasperated words showed clearly whose victory this was.

"Certainly not." The smile widened, which was enough to convince Nimue that he was lying through his teeth. In fact, he wasn't. "Only until you choose to revel your suppressed desire for me and consent to let me fulfill every carnal fantasy you didn't even know you had."

"You're impossible." And he had drawn much too close to her, the glimmer in his eyes suggesting that he had more than a few fantasies of his own. It was also surprising that simply dropping one's voice to a sensual whisper could be enough to make even a person as sexually repressed (that would be Zevran's assessment) as her notice the implication without any delay.

"Quite the contrary, my dear." His voice had become a purr, sensual but not yet satisfied. The hand that had intended to linger on the exposed skin of her cheek was now sliding along the fabric of her sleeve with the lingering precision of someone looking for the smallest rip to resume the unhindered contact. "All you have to do is say the word…"

"How did you come to be an assassin?" Nimue asked instead of smacking the hand away, which would have hardly helped things – at least, so she thought, and her assessment of people and situations was generally good. "You mentioned being bought as a child. Tell me a little about yourself."

"Such cruelty." Despite the grin he flashed the mage, Zevran was actually surprised that she had remembered the throwaway comment on his reasons for wishing to be free of the Crows and not dismissed it as a ploy to gain her sympathy.

"Please." Moreover, she seemed genuinely interested, because the word didn't come out with the difficulty of a particularly stubborn tooth refusing to be pulled out of its throne.

"Mmm, now there's a way to ensnare your unsuspecting victim. Are you certain you don't wish to use it in an entirely different context?"

Her delectable lips formed a thin line, but otherwise, she remained unfazed. "Completely."

Zevran allowed himself a dramatic sigh. This could yet prove to be a challenge. "Very well, but I get to stare at you luridly in the meantime." If you're good at something, never do it for free, after all.

**o.O.o**

Out of a need to justify herself at least a little and do something productive, Nimue actually half-heartedly looked for some elfroot, managing to find a batch or two. It was a common enough herb and useful for health poultices, so it wasn't as if she had to devote her attention entirely to it.

Rabbit ran around excitedly, his superior sense of smell helping tremendously with this. They encountered very little activity in the nighttime forest, especially since Nimue was using a small levitating ball of light to show them the way. Most creatures were frightened away by this, or had the sense not to investigate something that, in their eyes, was a blatant method of ensnaring an unsuspecting prey.

But the hound, with its superior intelligence, could sense that his elf hadn't taken him along simply to enjoy his company, despite this being a regular occurrence among them. She was distressed, obviously, and unconcerned with actually gathering food or those plants of hers that made him sneeze at times and didn't taste too good but soothed any wound.

Was it because the shadow warrior had made a claim on her in front of the whole pack?

"Partially." his elf replied, with her smile betraying the lie. Rabbit had learned to approve of the shadow warrior, because his elf always smelled like a waterfall when with him, vibrant and full of life. Before, she had been only a river, quiet, steady, but without any peace.

But it was better to have the order of things established and, after all, and it didn't seem as though his elf intended to mate with anyone else, even the cheese knight (Rabbit had tried other monikers for him, but somehow, this just seemed right). In any case, it didn't seem as though he had the intention of challenging the shadow warrior for the right to mate with his elf, which was either a sign of submission or weakness. Or respect, well, if the rules of humans were to be abided by.

His elf gave a small laugh. "Now there's an idea; have them fight for me. But they already do, just not each other. That's enough for now."

Rabbit could respect that, but he did stand by the decision that it was for her to confirm the claim rather than give the cheese knight hope. He still remembered the smell of the forest after a harsh summer storm on his elf after she had met the broken ash-sword in her former home, the surprise and the hurt, something the cheese knight seemed to remind her of.

While his elf said nothing to that, Rabbit was quite certain that the silence counted as a confirmation. Twice as much when it turned out that the cheese knight was waiting for his elf to return, a little further away from the camp than usual, ignoring the vigilant Shale, who needed no sleep and thus was almost always on watch duty. Another reason for that was that she didn't really trust the inferior senses of organics to detect enemies properly.

Rabbit's elf tensed as she stopped, almost shifting into the stance she usually used before an attack. However, she didn't move into a position preparing for that kind of confrontation.

"So… I guess that answers the question I was hoping to ask you." Alistair began, torn between looking at her and trying to discern her thoughts or not looking at her at all, because it would most certainly mean another wound. "You know, for an assassin with lifelong training in stealth and all that, Zev certainly isn't the subtlest of guys, right?" It was hardly a good joke, but certainly the best he could muster up now.

The image of the elf kissing her with almost indecent passion, as if it were the most natural thing in the world and holding her close enough to be considered intimate were it not for the presence of clothing separating them was too freshly burned into his eyes.

"I… yes. I suppose you could say that. Alistair, I intended to tell you…"

"But I stopped you with that silly stunt with the rose." The templar nodded, things falling into context for him at last. Nimue, with her considerate attitude, had spent so much time trying not to hurt him… and the plan had backfired spectacularly. "I see now. I should have realized. I mean, Morrigan's been giving me the evil eye for some time and Leliana always got a bit evasive when I asked… well, never mind now. They didn't tell me anything."

Morrigan must have been laughing herself silly in the privacy of her tent. Just another reason to hate her, then.

"I had hoped to tell you myself." Nimue's voice was softer as usual, filled with bleak regret. Yes, things could have ended a bit better. "I really didn't want you to find out like this…"

"I know. But…I'm just trying to understand your point of view here, Nimue." Because though he would always watch over her and protect her – how ironic, considering what she was and what he had been trained to be – it just seemed so contrary to her logical nature to do this. "Even if I didn't lo- like you," he amended quickly, before the eyes watching him warily could widen, "I'd be concerned about another Warden striking up a relationship of this nature with a man who was contracted to kill us both."

"I understand your concern."

"Do you?" While Alistair didn't doubt that the assassin felt some attachment to Nimue – because, as he must have already (the very thought made the templar feel like killing a few genlocks) bedded the mage, he still remained at her side and continued on as if nothing had happened – there was no telling what he might do if Loghain's people caught up with them again or if (Maker forbid) more and better prepared Crows would show up. "You're taking a great risk here and I'm not sure you actually understand the extent of it. I'm willing to believe Zevran's story. Maker, I'm actually even willing to believe that you have a point about his usefulness. But… how can you ever believe that what you have is genuine and not some kind of elaborate ploy to kill you?"

"He's had plenty of chances already, Alistair. If you constantly worry about dying, you might never live." Lowering her eyes, Nimue delved deeper into herself and gave another reason. "I've never had the opportunity to choose what I actually wanted – even when I was little, I had to compromise because of what I am."

"And this is what you want? You…" The thought was almost like a fatal blow, but as a knight and someone trained to take wounds with dignity and strength (as befitted a noble's ward, his childhood tutors would always say) he was resolved to be able to take it. Even if such resolution was a lie. "Do you love him?"

Never before had Nimue blinked so much in the span of a few seconds. Curiously, though the question would have surprised her even when she had had a straight answer, now there were many conflicting thoughts springing up in regards to that.

"I… how would I know such a thing?" She had never felt love for anyone, save for the entirely sisterly affection for Jowan, which had been dulled by pain and betrayal.

"I don't really know. You just… know, somehow. It sort of sneaks upon you, unexpected." Just like he had stumbled into her, despite the Blight and the killing. Or perhaps because of it; without the Blight, Duncan wouldn't have ventured to the Circle tower and saved her from the punishment she would most certainly have endured at the hands of the templars. "Like laundry day."

"I'm a mage… and an elf." But those were titles, words to cling to as the darkness fell upon them. It didn't mean that much in the grand scheme of things, especially since both were to their great advantage.

"You're a Grey Warden and a friend. And… the most wonderful woman I've ever met." Perhaps he should have said so earlier, because the words did seem to have some effect on her, even though her expression was filled with the one positive emotion Alistair wasn't looking for in her – pity – and the darker tones of regret. "Not that that does me much good, since you're obviously taken. Zev's a lucky bastard."

"It was never my intention to hurt you."

"It's all right. I… I'm okay with it. Really." Nimue still didn't look convinced, which was entirely justified. It was probably another great low for Alistair that he wished, for a brief, insane moment, that he was as brazen as Zevran or even as near-delusionally self-confident as Oghren and try to win her back with some suave phrases. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. "If it wasn't meant to be… then it wasn't meant to be! That's all there is to it."

It wasn't true, not in the least, but even he had noticed the slight change for the better in her general attitude during the last few weeks and couldn't bear to disrupt it, despite his own unhappiness at the development.

"Will you accept being my friend, at least?"

And one of Alistair's beliefs in the Chantry doctrine was shattered in that moment, because he came to realize that pity, not hatred, could be the most painful of sentiments.

"Always, Nimue." The mage shifted at the words, discomfort passing through her, because even she understood what he was in fact saying. "Always."

"Thank you for understanding." the elf said instead of anything else.

Alistair stifled a grimace. "Oh, I wouldn't go _that_ far. But I… hope _he_ makes you happy."

"He already does." Even pity sometimes didn't pull punches.

"Well. I guess that just about settles it, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose. I'll give you your rose back."

"No, keep it." Alistair said before she could move towards her tent. Nimue glanced back, puzzled. "Everything I said is true."

And perhaps it was worth it all (he hoped) just to see that look of surprise on her face subside to a smile, not loving or pitying or mocking, but genuine and kind, as her true self was. Even if she had hesitated at the question of love where the answer would have once upon a time been no, just as she would have claimed not to trust the assassin straight after recruiting him. But the happiness in her suggested otherwise. At the very least, it was that damnable _maybe_ once again.

Rabbit, tired of the general lack of excitement, had taken his usual spot near the fire. Alistair chose to join him for the time being, at least until his shift was over, watching ruefully as Nimue disappeared into her tent. There was a brief muffled movement inside, but then all sounds stilled. Nevertheless, Alistair was quite certain that Zevran had already managed to sneak inside and would no longer have a care about disrupting the peace, as it were, now that the cat was out of the bag.

"Lucky bastard." the templar muttered to himself. Funny how being a literal bastard had always meant getting the short end of the stick for him and being a figurative one seemed the way to go when it came to getting what one wanted.

The warhound at his side gave him a tired look that could be the equivalent of a raised eyebrow. Giving up without a fight and he expected Rabbit's elf to mate with him? He'd better stick to the cheese; at least there, the knight was highly vicious with or without a fork as his weapon. It also helped that the cheese didn't have the mental capacity to choose its potential consumer.

If his judgment was right about one thing, though, it was the sneaking part – Rabbit could tell, because the smell of spice and cold steel coming from his elf's tent was familiar to him.

By now, Nimue was utterly used to the fact that she could hardly ever tell when Leliana or Zevran would suddenly appear with footsteps light enough not to even bend a patch of grass, let alone the fact that the assassin had very easily acquired the habit of entering her tent whenever it pleased him as if it were his own.

"That went as well as could be expected." she said, more to herself, because, in a gesture that suggested that he clearly believed the matter to be resolved and thus of no further concern, Zevran proceeded to eliminate whatever small distance between them the tent allowed by practically pulling her forward.

"Of course it did. Your excellent taste speaks for itself."

Nimue made a sound that could charitably be called a laugh or – perhaps more realistically – an amused snort. "How modest of you."

"Mm, not at all… it really does…" Nimue finally realized that he was speaking literally this time, because having one's neck licked was a particularly unmistakable sensation. In addition, one of his hands had already found the clasp of her belt with practiced ease and was steadily working at undoing it. "You spoil me with such delicious…" The belt gave away, meaning that finishing that particular thought became highly unnecessary.

"Maybe I should stop, then, before you become unbearable…" Judging by the way she was adapting to the situation – again, with routine ease, because this was now indeed a regular occurrence – and easily working her way around whatever armor he was still wearing, she would do so with utmost reluctance.

"Cruel, cruel temptress… and a sly one as well, getting me addicted and then attempting to withhold my pleasure." At least it was a very half-hearted threat, because reacquainting himself with the wonders her robes concealed after the anguishing separation of several hours was something he would most definitely sorely miss.

"Addicted, are you?"

The question was rewarded with a triumphant if mischievous grin, because Zevran had employed a feat of a true thief's skill on her clothing, leaving her hair as the only thing that could possibly give her any semblance of modesty by covering her. Good thing that it wasn't long enough for that purpose; modesty was entirely overrated.

"It is only fair that I achieve the same with you, of course."

"You're welcome to try." The attempt had already begun, actually.

But it was always good to have one's efforts appreciated. "A willing victim it is. Now, I do believe you owe me a reward for my assistance earlier on, fair Warden."

"I thought that the assistance and the reward amounted to the same thing, actually." She still remembered the one moment when it seemed that her mind had been rendered utterly unreceptive to anything except the touch of his lips, something she had believed only a concussion capable of.

"Oh-ho, what a cynical pragmatist you are tonight. That will most certainly not do."

But she, having traded too many words entirely for the course of a single night, silenced him with a kiss that would have answered Alistair's question and repeated Wynne's worries, made Leliana smile and Oghren giggle in an entirely wrong fashion. However, as none of them were present, it only served to bring about another few hours of precious bliss and plant the seeds of doubt and confusion into both of their minds.


	6. Entrapment

The last update before Christmas is a Fracture chapter! Again posted separately, because it can be considered a one-shot.

Things get somewhat resolved, but fear not, this certainly isn't the end – there are things to come yet.

**o.O.o**

**Entrapment**

**o.O.o**

With no further need to disguise the nature of his relationship with Nimue in any way came many advantages, but also certain trials that had to be passed.

Certainly there were those that disapproved of their dalliance that his Warden was too polite to send to hell with regards to this, but they were highly unlikely to take action. It surprised Zevran greatly, then, that Alistair himself chose to approach him the very day after Nimue had explained things to him.

It was peculiar, really, watching the templar finally gather his courage and step forth without a pretext, almost as if waiting to be addressed instead of wishing to speak. Naturally, all this happened when Nimue herself was gone from the camp, dealing with some task or another. The assassin didn't even bother stopping his dagger-sharpening for the sake of this doubtless enlightening conversation, because he could already imagine its contents vividly.

"Ah. Judging by your pained expression, either you are recovering from Oghren's home brew or the lovely Nimue told you something not to your liking. If it is the former, I'm afraid I cannot help you." Of course it wasn't, but it never hurt to lighten the mood somewhat before these inevitable confrontations.

Maker and Creators both, one speech after another, first Wynne as the protective parent, now Alistair as the forsaken lover. At least the mage had a legitimate claim on the position, seeing as she was Nimue's superior as far as mages were concerned and obviously had some personal experience with relationships and disappointment. But the templar, who had never even tried to make a claim on the young mage, for him to do so now… it was a laughable move, really, especially when it would change nothing.

Nimue had decided.

"She trusts you more than I imagined." Every word came out grudgingly, with the undertone that clearly implied that the trust wasn't shared. Zevran privately wondered if the sentiment would be different if their positions were reversed and he had been the one left pining over their leader's smooth thighs. "It isn't like her to trust this easily. I don't know if you tricked her somehow or if she's actually…" Exasperation taking hold, Alistair chose to cut things short and, for once, get straight to the point. "I can't claim to understand it."

Of _course_ he didn't understand, he who had tasted freedom before having it taken from him for a brief time, who had been raised higher than any of them, with more happiness than most of them had ever known. Because now should come the moment when the pair brought together by circumstances realize their deep affection for one another and discover their true love for one another.

"Someone with your wide experience with women would know that not all of them prefer to wait around for knights in shining armor to save them from dragons. Personally, I prefer that. It gives them such _fire_, wouldn't you say?"

Then again, the only flames Nimue had unleashed in front of her earliest companion were apparently the ones she could summon to her fingertips with a surge of arcane power. And with things as they were, it was doubtful that Alistair would experience any other too soon.

"You wouldn't, though, I forget. A shame." Unless, of course, that was remedied. The templar was by no means an unattractive man, even if his regular bouts of bemoaning his own terrible fate did get tiresome after a while. "There is always time to learn, though, my friend, so should you ever find yourself interested…"

And, predictably, the man didn't even wait for Zevran to finish the offer before drawing back with a grimace one usually attributed to broodmothers giving birth.

"Does Nimue even know you still act like this?" he demanded, the inborn prudishness alarm all Fereldans seemed to possess going haywire. "Because obviously, having just her doesn't seem to be enough for you."

How amusing, that even their virtuous templar would immediately assume that he knew exactly what was being offered. For shame, Zevran thought, that the mighty could fall and the innocent be corrupted so easily. Hypocrisy was a nasty thing in anyone, especially these Chantry mice.

"There's no need to be so touchy on the matter, my friend; a simple no will suffice. And Nimue is aware of things, yes. You may believe what you wish, but I have no intention of using pretense to secure her – well, affections, I suppose." Such things would quickly wane and if – _if_ – there was the possibility that… no. Their fair Warden had chosen him because she had no wish to entangle herself emotionally. That her kisses had begun to burn was merely a result of closure regarding their now-petulant templar. "That is a word you would use, yes? It would cause all sorts of problems should she grow tired of me."

What Zevran didn't add was that he did intend to assure that such a thing didn't happen, at least not soon. It didn't seem that there would be any need, but… he was a little close to the pretty little bird to let it fly away when fancy struck it. All that was necessary was to never give her the impression that a cage was being prepared for her.

Alistair himself remained unconvinced and thoroughly clench-jawed, which didn't suit his youthful appearance the slightest bit. For a moment, the assassin was actually reminded of Loghain, but the general hadn't appeared on the verge of having his mind explode from information overload during their brief meeting.

"This is what she wants? What you intend to give her? Just… momentary amusement?"

Zevran laughed openly, because he finally understood why Nimue had been so reluctant to see the young templar's affection for her. Some part of her had understood that the object of Alistair's affections wasn't truly she herself; it was a blurred vision of her seen through rose-tinted glasses, with all her edges smoothed out. Just like he couldn't wrap his mind around her willingness to explore the possibilities of blood magic (because the Chantry claimed it was evil, of course) snd he couldn't understand why she regarded kind-voiced Chantry devotees with cold eyes (because she remembered how easily the coin could be flipped).

This decision had obviously caused the wheels in his head to nearly overload.

"You say that like it's such a horrible thing! Is it this hard to comprehend that the fair Warden would resist your sophisticated charms, Alistair?" Apparently, it was. Well, now that that soul-searching was over with, perhaps it was best to speed things along and give their honored templar the chance to have his own closure regarding his pining over Nimue and move on. "Or – ah, I understand. This is the part where you, as the man who truly cares for her, threaten to kill me should I hurt her. Am I right?"

It did seem to get Alistair back on track, though credit had to be given to the fact that he didn't give into the baiting.

"That's unnecessary; she'd get to you before I could. I love Nimue." He said it so flatly, with such utter matter-of-fact certainty that Zevran wondered why he hadn't ever mustered the courage to blurt it out at her with similar grace and poise. "I told her as much, but she chose you nonetheless. I can't claim to understand why, but she trusts you… maybe even cares for you."

Of course, _maybe_ she had been willing to trust him weeks ago. And there had been no trace of doubt or hesitation in the vision Alistair still couldn't shake, even though the intimate embrace had been initiated by the other elf.

"Just remember that if you let her go, I will be there for her. And I'll make certain you won't get a second chance to have her." Alistair had hoped to find some comfort in saying these things, but there was none. In addition, once again, things were hardly going according to plan; the assassin was still grinning in an almost impish manner, breezing through the words as if they were nothing. "You find this funny?"

"I apologize, I truly do, but you sounded so melodramatic as you said that." The sad thing was, it was obvious their princeling believed these things. More the fool he, obviously, but it was unfortunate. Zevran decided to be merciful in victory, just this once, since it didn't cost him anything. Also, it didn't mean forfeiting anything by speaking the truth. "Do not be concerned for our lovely leader. I am hers, just as I promised, unless she decides otherwise."

And it was no longer _until_ but _unless_ and, sadly once more, the significance of that didn't draw on Alistair just then.

**o.O.o**

The moments when she was free of Zevran's presence when in camp became rare afterwards, not that Nimue was complaining too much. In general, things had remained very much the same, save for the nightly company. Perhaps Alistair's attitude towards her had become somewhat cooler and more formal, but she had eventually learned not to dwell on the pained glances he sometimes sent her way when there was no mistaking her relationship with the assassin – and, contrary to expectation, that was relatively often.

A month had passed since things had changed, as peacefully as it could, given the circumstances and the nature of their quest. The unrest she felt was coming from her. Wynne's prior prediction, which seemed to be lifetimes ago, kept echoing in her mind loudly at times. And that was more often than she would wish nowadays. She herself had made a promise to be selfish, to try to live before perishing… and now, the steel of that promise was beginning to crack.

Nimue didn't know why she even entertained such doubts, seeing as she had every reason to be content with the way her mess of a love life (as she would always say) remained consistently nonexistent. As she recognized no such emotion, she could not be feeling it. But the warmth dozens of kisses and many more touches inspired under her skin could no longer be attributed to merely lust, which had been sated to the point of being spoiled.

She felt… content even when not lying in the embrace of her lover, even when not entertaining thoughts of that near future.

This intensified most when that future became the present… and it frightened her, though in a different way than her affection for Alistair had. Months ago, she would have been perfectly content with merely knowing another's touch. Now that no longer seemed enough to some part of her that had been sealed ever since the moment she had realized that there would never be anyone for her, be it lover, friend or family, with her being a mage.

A friend, she had considered Zevran for quite a while, and had actually mentioned as such when they had been resting at the Gnawed Noble's tavern in Denerim. She could recall the scene vividly even now and decided to take that as the starting point for her analysis, if there was yet the chance to analyze the mishmash that was giving her a superior headache.

It had been a dark and stormy night, as stories often claimed, with everyone who was within the city walls scurried away in their little homes. The visitors to the city had to content themselves with the taverns, which they did without delay or fuss. The upscale establishment owed them a debt of gratitude, after all, for the services provided for the City Watch. Everyone save Morrigan had been present; the witch had promptly refused to take part in such foolishness as drinking and friendly banter and disappeared into the night in animal form, giving only the fleeting promise to Nimue that she would be back in the morning.

Oghren was making use of his prowess as a berserker and a drinker to out-drink all the other patrons, a way to pay for all of his consumed alcohol, no doubt. Leliana and Wynne were drinking beer together (the mage was an unlikely expert on the beverage) while discussing Chantry doctrine and laws about magic. Sten and Shale were apparently having an unofficial competition about who could scare more humans away with a simple stare, while Alistair juggled keeping count of things, fighting over his dinner with Rabbit and unconvincingly trying to disguise his glances to where Nimue was seated.

Zevran, considering sitting with a glass of water and a _book_ in her hand (of all things) a grave offense against the honorable establishment, gallantly took over the duty of chastising their leader, especially since no one else seemed willing to disturb her or sober enough to make a good argument of things.

"For shame, such a beautiful woman sitting alone, and not with a glass of wine in her hand." the assassin said, gracefully almost swinging into the chair nearest to her. With her neck-high robe, Nimue could have been mistaken for a Chantry sister, really, which would most definitely not do. After all, Zevran wasn't in a hurry to have her make any vows of chastity. It would be a shame to have to break a promise, after all. "This isn't your first trip to a tavern, is it?"

Looking up from her book, Nimue brushed pale hair out of her face with a mild smile. Obviously, the mayhem wasn't growing on her yet.

"I could still count the number on one hand, I think." She did close the tome, though, seeing that this wasn't going to be a mere one-sentence conversation.

"I think I understand now why you shun our dear lay sister in favor of Morrigan's company. The Chantry, with its laws about magic, has taken much from you." Leliana, though meaning well, represented the living embodiment of the doctrine that had dictated her whole life. On the other hand, Morrigan was an extreme embodiment of the reckless freedom and no rules to limit a person that anyone living in a cage for a while had to appreciate.

The wonderful thing was, the mage trusted him to the degree that she didn't slip on a mask of politeness and actually spoke her mind. "Yes. Don't get me wrong, I adore having magic." she said, giving another reason to support the argument. "But… at times I wish I had been born in Tevinter."

"Such sadness is surely a great crime against the Maker." And whoever had believed that locking up such wonder and beauty was right deserved a dagger or two between the ribs. "They will pay him their dues, in the end."

"I was surprised to hear you are religious. When Alistair asked, you said you pray… though I suppose you could have just been messing with him." Nimue mused, looking at the templar herself for a brief instant. By chance, their eyes met and the man looked away rather bashfully. Nimue didn't really notice; truthfully, she didn't even seem to gather that the templar appeared a little intoxicated, giggling over his own drink in a way that would befit a girl half his age more.

"It is rather easy to do that." Zevran admitted, remembering those moments fondly. While he considered it beneath him to try and discredit the young Warden's credibility as a warrior and a capable addition to their team with regards to his immaturity (Alistair himself clearly had no such reservations, though perhaps his reasons were just the slightest bit valid), he was entitled to a bit of fun. "I do pray, at times, though my words would likely sound downright sacrilegious to our Chantry mouse. This doesn't bother you, I hope."

"Why would it?" Nimue blinked. She had nothing against the Maker himself; the thing she resented was the Chantry itself, not its ideals or its god. She would never worship him or consider herself his instrument, but she was able to respect his ideology. Which was more than his followers had done for her people, really.

The smile she was receiving widened just a little. "Glad I am to hear it. And you might resent me for this, but I am grateful that you weren't born in Tevinter." Not only because that would have meant that their meeting would never have taken place, of course. "Though you could try to display your allegiance to their philosophies by donning their fashions." That she wore her hair unbound and only a little braided was the first step. Now, if only she got rid of all the excessive fabric… "I seem to remember these most fashionable robes back at the Wonders of Thedas, just cut out for you…"

Nimue clearly remembered that trip all too well, because her sudden lack of pallor wasn't merely a trick of the light. She did manage to admirably cover it up with a laugh, though. "I'll have to remember not to get drunk tonight, since you seem to be having bright ideas."

She considered such ideas bright, then? Again, just a little wider, the grin she got. It was a dare, a challenge, and most certainly laden with mischief. Progress was progress.

"Come now, you should try a bit, at least." Zevran was even willing to share part of his own drink, with the requisite paper umbrella on it. An Antivan had to have standards, after all. "Mages are forbidden from drinking alcohol, I gather? Wynne mentioned that it might cause you to lose control. And not in the good way."

"I guess that's why the Tranquil are immune to possession; they don't have emotions to spiral out of control." Nimue decided to be daring, for once, and actually accepted the offered drink. She did, however, take great care with the small sip she took, because an unfamiliar colored substance wasn't something to ingest lightly. Still, it was almost spicy, not entirely unpleasant and certainly an experience. An acquired taste, maybe.

Sort of like these little dances of theirs, so to speak.

"That sounds reasonable. But really, one glass should be all right." Out of nowhere, the elf managed to produce a wineglass and a fresh bottle. Though it didn't seem to have been tampered with, Nimue was on her toes by this point. Seeing that, the assassin most courteously took the first sip and didn't seem any worse for the wear. He did grimace just a little, however. "It isn't quality brew, for certain, and a little bit won't hurt even someone with low alcohol tolerance. It might at least help you relax."

"Don't I seem relaxed?" Was that even a question, with the book and the glass of water? It positively reeked of self-loathing.

"Not nearly enough." Actually, it was doubtful she would ever relax sufficiently, but Zevran made it his mission to push the limits on that account. After all, mages were probably more liable to losing control if they remained tense. "Darkspawn do not attack us at every moment and your bodyguard seems a little preoccupied with holding his own liquor to lecture you on that account."

Over at the betting table, Alistair seemed to have struck up a highly meaningful conversation with the mabari warhound. Judging by the hand gesticulations involved, Zevran correctly assumed that the man was drowning his sorrows over not being able to confess his undying love to Nimue and had found an eternal friend in Rabbit, who was a great listener and offered unquestionably fine advice on the topic of his mistress.

Nimue merely rolled her eyes, pointedly _not_ looking at the wreck her templar was becoming. "Alistair isn't my bodyguard."

A single eyebrow rose just the right fraction of an inch to convey both delicate doubt and something a little more aggressive – the mage had learned to recognize the combination by then. "Oh? Is the post still open then?" Along with the subtle movement of the chair towards hers, bordering on her personal space but still only waiting for the door to be answered rather than bursting in.

The knocking, Nimue chose to acknowledge with a patient smile. "Maybe. Do you have a resume?"

"Hmm, I'm not entirely certain citing specific recommendations would be beneficial…" After all, each of the times he had been forced to pose as a bodyguard, his true target had been the one who was to appear as his employer. In this one case, Zevran was willing to make an exception, though, on the condition that he could guard her body _very_ thoroughly. "I'm sure I could accommodate your requests nonetheless."

At the very least, he appeared to have cheered her up substantially, enough to earn a reward in the form of her lilting laughter. "I'll make certain to put your application on file. And I do appreciate the offer." Nimue added on a more serious note. Ironically, that was when her features softened and she truly seemed at ease. "No one's ever offered to protect me before; it's a quaint concept."

"You handle yourself too well, my dear, that is the problem. These Fereldans don't know how to appreciate a woman who can fight off ogres while armed only with a large wooden stick. That is their logic, not mine, mind you." Zevran added before she could possibly take offense to the comment about her staff. It was a pretty stick, at least.

"I gathered that. You've actually made me very interested in Antiva – and other places as well. I think… if I happen to survive, by some miracle, that I'd like to see them. Some of them, at least. Would…" Nimue swallowed and almost dismissed her own thought by biting her own tongue. It had already made her audience attentive, though, if the silence was anything to go by, so she couldn't exactly back out now. "Would it be asking too much if I presumed you wouldn't mind coming with me?"

Now _this _was unquestionable progress, even though the direction of it was a little different than Zevran would have preferred. With the door answered, he leaned back on his chair almost as if it were a throne, setting the drink aside. "My ears must deceive me, for I was sure I heard you request my company on a quest of personal discovery, dear lady."

"No, I'm being serious." She even glossed over the opportunity to respond with a quip of her own and kept holding his gaze with earnest certainty. For a second there, Zevran almost wasn't able to maintain eye contact with such unhidden trust. "I'm still somewhat useless when it comes to… practical matters, you could say?" Their trip to the marketplace had proven that; without the mabari warhound scaring off pickpockets, she would no doubt have been robbed blind. "I would have asked Leliana, but I wouldn't want her to…" Here Nimue's lips thinned, pressed together as they were. "Get the wrong idea."

Aah, she had noticed. Perhaps not in the sense he had, but she wasn't entirely ignorant to how she affected the perceptions of her companions. Having sufficient courtesy not to delve into a matter she wasn't comfortable discussing – not that there was much to discuss – Zevran's fingers drummed on the table near her their discarded drinks in an almost blasé manner.

"And you aren't worried that I might get some ideas of my own? Travelling alone with our beautiful sorceress, by her own suggestion, no less." That grin, though, was anything but disinterested. "That does let the mind wander, you know."

This time, Nimue didn't roll her eyes. Even unpredictability could eventually become predictable, if one knew what to watch for. "You'd get ideas no matter how I presented the idea to you. Besides, you are my friend now, but I am open to future possibilities." she added, partly to assuage him, partly to silence the voice in her head that would have claimed it to be a lie otherwise.

The drumming fingers stilled with the stealthy precision of a fox waiting to strike at a lost chicken. Though Zevran was somewhat familiar with the sensation of air being knocked out of one's lungs, a single word had never succeeded in such an endeavor before.

"Friend, you say?" Maker knew it wasn't what he wanted – no, it wasn't _all_ he wanted of her – but being offered such a thing without the need to bait and wait and strike was…

He wasn't drunk enough to be feeling mushy, Maker damn it; and Zevran Arainai certainly didn't get mushy even when drunk. It was an alien sensation.

"Yes." When serious, Nimue tended to employ simplicity. That she averted her eyes just for a moment was a testament to sincerity. "I do trust you, you know." At first, she had thought they would get along well because they'd have some kind of connection, being both elves and forced into their lives. After having travelled together for so long, her opinion couldn't be more different. "I think… you wouldn't judge me, no matter what decision I'd make." she confessed, and the mask of the Warden cracked in two. "That means a lot to me."

Mere words that could stab deeper than any blade had ever reached. The assassin in Zevran protested against the foolishness of allowing such empty syllables thrown together affect him. It was meaningless, empty, because, in the end, so was she. Perhaps that was the moment which cemented his loyalty to the woman, despite this, because she had given them meaning and overcame this impulse with her own conviction.

"As long as you do not die on me, I intend to hold you to that word, _carina_." Though she might not have understood the word, Nimue made no move to shrug off the arm that had skillfully wrapped itself around her birdlike shoulders, trapping her in place.

Instead, she gave a thoughtful frown, much altered from the one leaking worry all over the place. "Now I see I'll have some more studying to do before that time comes. You'll have to teach me the language as well."

"That might take a while even with a sharp wit such as yours." Of course, if teaching her other things to do with her tongue were in question… but something prevented Zevran from suggesting this, because it might (it _wouldn't, _but it _might_) ruin this wonderful chance to… he didn't even know what, really. But he knew a chance when he saw one.

"There will be enough time for that. Lots of world to cover." It was a paraphrase, but suitable for a more peaceful moment than that when it had been told to Nimue.

The realization that she was offering to do all this with him alone – and perhaps that pesky warhound, honorary bedwarmer as he still was (though not for long if Zevran had his way) – was somehow worth more than any treasure he might have received in return for her head.

With that settled, the assassin very reluctantly relinquished the hold over his prize, only to offer an outstretched hand for another kind of bond.

"A promise, then? Between friends?" The word was foreign to him and highly unfitting for the woman in front of him, but complaining had no place in this arrangement.

Especially when Nimue took the hand without a moment's hesitation. "Agreed. You have my word, on my honor as a Grey Warden."

It was a bit off-putting that she worded it as such, not using her honor as a mage (though that was dubious in the eyes of most people), an elf (humans would hardly consider that even close to actual honor) or a friend (which was too fragile a bond right now, so it was understandable).

Despite shaking the hand, Zevran offered a resigned sigh. "I suppose I can settle for that for the time being."

It had the desired effect; Nimue smiled. "I'm grateful." For what, she didn't elaborate.

"We will have to add a condition about you wearing Tevinter robes on those travels, of course." It was time to drop the seriousness a little, before the words cut a little too deeply and passed even through the shroud of Rinna's shadow. It was too soon, too much and too… _her_. "To fit among the locals."

But her mask didn't resume; not even when he kissed her hand with a laugh after receiving a better answer than expected. "Maybe."

In the camp, at the present time, Nimue recalled that first touch of his lips with a shudder, which was nowhere near disgust and everywhere in the clash between fear and pleasure.

She had bound them together, entirely willingly, creating the perfect trap for herself. Because all that she was, Zevran had chosen to acknowledge and ___accept and _understand, which was more than she had ever hoped for in a companion. Picking up the pieces of her shattered mask was harder than she had imagined, especially when there was nothing to hold them in place when they were smashed away, again and again, by her own desire to do so and by… _this_.

That night, there was no trace of _maybe_ in her touch or her embrace. Nimue Surana had decided on _yes_, and Maker damn all those who would punish her for it. After all, in the end, the penalty for finally answering Alistair's question (at least to herself) could come not from them, but from this love of hers just as easily.


	7. Chapter 7

Apologies for the huge gap – I finally have time to continue my fanfic writing. If anyone still wants to see this story continued, please review/PM me and I will go on writing the story with the most support.


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